Losing to Win
by darcyfarrow
Summary: With the arrival of Emma in Storybrooke, Rumplestiltskin awakens from the curse and learns Regina's had her revenge upon him–by marrying Belle off to his only friend. The situation becomes even more complicated when Belle and Dove learn they're about to become parents. Takes place in season 1. Rumbelle, Swanfire. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N. This story is named for a song that Robert Carlyle has said he listens to when he's preparing to play Rumplestiltskin: Kasabian's "Underdog." **

* * *

><p>Today's <em>Mirror<em> reports that by the latest count, Storybrooke has 3,016 inhabitants. As the customers in Granny's Diner comment on the article–for there's absolutely nothing else in the newspaper to comment upon–no one remarks upon the odd fact that this year's count is exactly the same as last year's and the previous year's. No births have added to the number; no deaths have taken from it; no one's moved in or out; and no one notices.

As he opens the door to Granny's Diner, Mr. Gold catches snatches of conversation about the article, but it comes to a gear-grinding halt when he steps inside. The diners glance sideways at him; when he looks into their faces, they busy themselves with cups and cutlery.

Gold approaches the counter, eyes the red vinyl stool with disgust, then eases himself slowly onto it, subtly leaning on his cane. Ruby ends her chitchat with the sheriff in mid-sentence and rushes to her post behind the counter, her pencil already busy writing "Gold's usual" on her pad before she asks the question: "The usual, Mr. Gold?"

The landlord nods curtly and looks around at the other customers. When he swings back around to face the cup of coffee she sets before him, he's not scowling as much as when he first entered: after scanning the crowd and totaling the prices of their meals, he's concluded that Granny's taken in enough to pay the rent today.

"Mornin', Mr. Gold."

Everyone looks up at the only man in town who ever bids Gold a good morning and means it: his jack-of-all-trades, Josiah Dove. Dove seems to genuinely like Gold, though when asked why, all he can do is shrug and say, "He's always played me fair." But then, Dove likes everyone.

And on his arm this morning is one of the reasons why: his sweet little wife, Belinda. She stands five-one in her high heels, to Josiah's six-nine, but they've been together so long no one notices the difference any more. Besides, they make each other happy, and that's a rare thing.

"Morning, Mr. Gold," Belinda echoes her husband. Her voice is music, a clear, sweet bell that rings out across the restaurant as she greets the other customers by their first names. Only Gold is never spoken to with such familiarity, even by the Doves, even though they both have worked for him forever.

Once a week while Gold's at his shop, she marches into his big pink house on the hill to cook and clean. When she exits in the late afternoon, she leaves a spotless house, a well-stocked larder and a plate warming in the oven and she carries home in her pocket a shopping list Gold has written out and her and Josiah's paycheck. Unlike her husband, she rarely crosses paths with Gold. Clearly, everyone realizes, that's Gold's preference, not hers, for when she speaks of him it's always with respect and a hint of fondness. But that's Belinda for you: she finds something nice to say about everyone.

It's rumored that Gold actually converses socially with Josiah as they work, commenting upon the weather or taxes or some antique he's restoring. Josiah will neither confirm nor deny this rumor. He keeps all his employer's secrets, especially those that might tarnish the Meanest Man title.

As they walk past him to seat themselves in a booth, Mr. Gold gives the couple a half-smile and a greeting that's a couple of degrees warmer than his typical polite responses. He's unfailingly polite, Gold is, but never warm, not even to the children who walk past his shop on their way to school.

As Gold finishes his coffee and dry wheat toast, he drops three dollars onto the counter and Ruby thanks him. He stands to leave and Belinda calls out after him, her blue eyes twinkling, "Trout almondine tonight, Mr. Gold."

Gold pauses just a moment to almost smile at her. "Thank you, Ms. Dove. I look forward to it. Rent collection today, Mr. Dove. I shall expect you at nine."

"See you then, Mr. Gold," Josiah answers.

* * *

><p>Head high–though he sneaks glances downward to make certain he doesn't trip over breaks in the sidewalk–Gold strolls six blocks to his shop. He enters through the back and moves to the counter, where he opens his ledger and admires the ever-growing column of numbers. He likes Rent Day and doesn't hide the fact from the public. What he does hide is the fact that he likes Rent Day not only for the money he collects, but for the excuse to be out and about.<p>

No one suspects, except the Doves, and they'll never tell: the brief moments of social interaction he gets with his tenants on Rent Day provide something more than an income for the Meanest Man in Town. Comfort, he has, and by most standards, a good life, but friends or family, he has not. Only the Doves leave a Christmas card in his mailbox in December and a birthday card in April. Only the Doves pay attention to whether he eats properly or gets enough sleep. Only the Doves seem to care how he answers when asked, "How are you?"

Sometimes, when business at the shop is slow (when isn't it?) and he hasn't any broken antiques to repair, Gold reaches into a secret drawer in his worktable, takes out a box of dominos and invites Dove to play.

On those days, when customers wander in, Gold is sometimes caught in mid-smile.

Twilight has snuck up on the village by the time Gold returns to Granny's, this time to collect the rent. While Dove has been collecting from the residential neighborhoods, Gold has been collecting from the businesses. The diner is always last on his stops, so that he can enjoy an Irish coffee before he goes home to the plate warming in his oven. Something's off-kilter today, though: Regina's maid Marian, who pulls occasional waitressing shifts, informs him that both Lucas women are in the inn–with a guest.

"With a–" Gold begins to repeat, then he remembers it won't do for the Meanest Man to seem not to know a stranger has arrived in town. "Thank you, Ms. Nottingham." He pushes through overgrown hedges to find the inn. He can't remember having come inside before, but he shoves the door open as brazenly as if he owns the place, since he does.

Granny is indeed busy registering a guest–one can't very well say "new guest" since the inn has never had any. Ever. Gold stands back, eavesdropping in amazement he manages to hide: not that Granny or Ruby notice him; they're fixed on the stranger in red leather who's asked for a room for a week. Fumbling, Granny opens the dust-covered registration book and spins it around for her guest to sign.

"Now, what's the name?"

"Swan. Emma Swan."

A flash of light, like a lightbulb exploding, goes off in Gold's head, momentarily blinding him, and he thinks he hears the echo of a semi-maniacal giggle from somewhere behind him. As he stands there, seemingly unflappable, his hands folded on the head of his cane as he waits to speak to Granny, he's fighting for mental survival against the barrage of voices and faces attacking his brain. Memories, he realizes, of another life, another world, where he was the most powerful sorcerer in all the lands. Where he had everything except the thing he valued most. . . where the quest to have everything drove away the people he valued most.

But that will soon come to an end, thanks to the arrival of the stranger in red leather. "Emma!" He smiles at her, ignoring the creeped-out look she gives him. It doesn't matter what she thinks of him; her destiny is about to unfurl, and when she fulfills it, she will bring him back his long-lost son, the only thing he wants, the only thing that truly matters.

Granny hands him a wad of cash. He pockets it quickly, for it embarrasses him somehow. Now, for the first time, he senses how artificial the power of money is: the woman standing before him has the real power and she doesn't even know it yet; he will have to help her discover it, and then she'll lead him to his son.

"Enjoy your stay, Emma."

As he leaves, the werewolf gives him a look he can't decipher. No matter. She doesn't know they've been living a lie for three decades. She won't awaken to herself for another year.

Making a believer of a savior takes time.

Gold hurries back to his shop to get to work on a plan to save the savior. He's in his workroom writing out a plan (in the language of his childhood home, a tongue not spoken in three hundred years) when the bell above his door tinkles.

Annoyed, he grabs his cane, but before he can make it out to the front, a sweet voice calls him. "Mr. Gold? It's me, Belinda."

His heart stops.

"I, uh, wanted to ask you about something."

No, _not_ Belinda. That's a lie, just one of 3,016 lies fabricated by Regina's curse. Not Belinda. Not Dove's wife.

"I was dusting the curios in the cabinet in your dining room." Her voice increases in volume as she approaches, her sneakers squeaking on the wood laminate floor (fake! Like everything else in Storybrooke). "Mr. Gold? Are you here?"

He can't make his tongue work. That's not Belinda Dove out there. It's Belle.

He clutches the edge of his worktable.

The curtain rings rasp as she draws the back the curtain that separates the workroom from the public floor, that separates her from him. Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail and she's wearing faded jeans and a sweatshirt, the clothes she always wears when she cleans, but she may as well be dressed in diamonds and gold (his gold). As she dimples at him, unafraid of the Meanest Man in two worlds, she's just as beautiful now as the day he met her in her father's crumbling castle. Her sapphire eyes look directly into his. "Sorry to interrupt," she nods at the cuckoo clock on his table. "But I wanted to ask about this." She brings her hands forward to show him what she's holding.

The cup.

Their cup.

His head spins. He drops his cane.

She's by his side in an instant, crouching beside his bench. She sets the chipped teacup on the table so she can rest one hand on his knee and press the other to his forehead. "Mr. Gold? Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?" She brushes his hair from his forehead to get better access to his skin. "You feel cold. Clammy. Should I–"

"Some tea." He nods to the counter where he keeps an electric pot steeping. "Please."

She finds a clean cup in a cupboard, pours hot water into it and dunks a bag of chamomile into the water. "I still think I should get a doctor," she protests.

"Charlatans," he scoffs. "No, I'm perfectly well. Just tried to stand up too quickly, you know."

"Oh, yes, I've done that before." She doctors his tea with two lumps of brown sugar. No one else in Storybrooke–indeed, on the planet–takes brown sugar in their tea. It doesn't occur to her to ask about that quirk of his, nor to ask how it is that she even knows his preference: he never told her about it–in this world.

She brings him the tea and watches anxiously as he sips it. "Perfect. Thank you–" he can't bring himself to say her name. It would be a lie, and he won't lie to her any more. ("I don't want you any more"–the bigest lie in his life, after "All I want is your happiness, Bae. If you can find a way, I'll do it.")

She tests his forehead again. Her hand smells of lemon furniture polish, but her hair, as she leans over him, smells of roses, as it always did, and he's sure it's just as silky. "Well, you seem to have improved." She pulls her hand away too soon. "I'll, uh, leave you to your cuckoo."

"Wait. You had a question?" Anything to get her to stay, but he hopes she won't ask about the meaning of the chipped cup.

"Oh, yes." She touches the special cup. "I wondered if you want this thrown out. It's broken."

He runs a finger over the rim. "Only chipped, dear, not broken. As with many things in this life, it's slightly damaged but serviceable."

"Okay." She picks it up again. "I'll put it back. Anything else I can get for you before I go?"

He can think of many things, but he shakes his head. "No thanks."

She smiles as she starts for the door. "Call if you need anything. Trout almondine tonight, and rosemary potatoes."

"Sounds delicious." He lets her go. He wants to seize her waist and pull her into his chest for a kiss that never ends, a kiss he can finally give her, now that he's free of the Dark curse. Except this time she's the one who's cursed, and his kiss won't break it. Even if it could, he wouldn't dare. What would it do to her, to wake her up now, a full year before the savior will break Regina's curse? He's been awake only three hours so far, and he's already confused and frustrated as hell. What would it do to her, when she knows nothing about the real purpose of this curse?

When she realizes she's been sleeping with a man she doesn't love?

Rumplestiltskin chokes on his tea. Chokes with jealousy, for his true love has been making love for thirty years to his only friend.

"Belle!" He leaps to his feet. He stumbles onto the main floor, but she's gone. Thank the gods. For he would have seized her and kissed her and babbled his love for her, if she were still within his reach, and that would have been torture, for, being an honorable woman, she would have pushed him away, walked out of his life completely, as would her husband.

But she's alive, thank the gods, alive and unmarked–Regina lied, obviously, about the clerics and the flaying, and he's never been so relieved to find out he's been hoodwinked, though he vows he'll make Regina pay for that lie. And in a year, when Emma breaks the curse, she will remember who she is and what they had together.

If she'll forgive him.

The clock he's been oiling suddenly chooses this moment to taunt him: "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

If it were anyone else–that toothpaste-commercial model they call Prince Charming, say, or the gods-gift-to-nobody corpse-thief that claims to be a healer, or the stammering umbella boy–anybody else but Josiah Dove (who would without hesitation lay down his life for a friend, even the dubious one who signs his paycheck once a week), Gold would swoop in like a hungry hawk and take what's his, take the woman the Fates selected for him long ago and bound to him in ties no curse can put usunder. . . .

No, he wouldn't. That would be stupid, and Rumplestiltskin/Gold may possess many undesirable qualities, but neither in this life nor the previous one has stupidity ranked among them. He knows the curse better than anyone (better even than she who cast it, and he counted on the hotheaded sorceress' failure to bother reading the fine print to build in certain loopholes and trapdoors to his curse). If he were to attempt to tamper with the fake lives the curse wrote for himself, Josiah or Belle (_Belinda_, he must remember: Belinda in this world)–if he were to, say, send Josiah on some fool's errand to a city far away so that Belle/Belinda would be left unguarded, ready to fall prey to the Schemer of Storybrooke, the curse would merely block his move with another, more dastardly move of its own, for it is written in stone (and blood and fire) that Belle/Belinda French and Josiah Dove are happy husband and wife, flaunting their joy under the noses of all the lonely people around them, most especially the man Belle is truly meant to be with. All to amuse an envious queen who thinks she can outmanuever her master.

But the stone will shatter, the blood will wash away and the fire, burn out, with a single kiss born of pure love, when the savior fulfills her destiny. It's just damn hard waiting, when Belle is an arm's length away.

He dreams of her, the caresses, the kisses, the sweet promises that should have been exchanged when they had the chance in the Dark Castle, had he not been such a narrow-minded fool as to assume she would break his power and steal him from Bae. The truth, he learned after she left, is that her faith in him made him stronger, and that in love, there is always another path to reunion.

As his heart reaches for her, his body, forgetting it's three hundred years old, hungers as it never did for another woman. He dreams and twists in his bedsheets and wakes up alone in the dark, sweating, burning. She looks exactly as she did in the Enchanted Forest, mountain-stream-clear blue eyes, tumbling auburn hair, saucy I've-got-you-figured-out smile. Even her accent, her gestures, her walk are the same. Damn Regina, who planned it that way to torment him.

This time, however, they live in a world of short skirts and low necklines, and mores that would've made their Forest counterparts blush. Even the snow-white schoolteacher has slept with men without the validation of marriage. An affair, while fodder for gossip, would not call for a duel, as it would have in the Forest.

Gold could do it, too: the Doves are both too sweet and innocent to suspect him of evil plots and lustful imaginings. He could manipulate her into an affair and leave everyone convinced, after it was over, that it was Josiah's fault.

But that's what stops Gold: not the loss of his only friends, not the anguish an affair would cause them, but the certainty that it _would_ _be_ _over_, just a short-lived fling, and then the curse would yank Belle from him again. Temporary isn't good enough–it's worse than not at all. For what would Belle think of him when the curse breaks and she awakes, to find her beloved has used her so?

Gold thinks about this as he watches Ms. Dove buy her groceries, wash her car, weed her garden, deposit her paycheck. From the tinted windows of his Cadillac and the picture windows of his shop, day after day he watches her, and loves her, and respects her husband, and hates Regina. For someone must take the blame for the jealousy and yearning that rob him of his sleep and his appetite, musn't they? And only when he's so entangled in his damp sheets that he can't escape the truth does he take a portion of the blame onto himself. (He washes the sheets himself so she won't suspect, and when he replaces them, he musses his bed to make it appear slept-in.)

He's a jaded soul who's seen the worst mankind can do–who's _done_ the worst mankind can do. He doesn't fool himself into thinking that when Emma kisses the curse away, a month, a year, a decade from now, Belle will run into his arms and Josiah will wave a cheery goodbye to her and offer to stand best man at the wedding. There will be confusion, guilt, loneliness, and especially when they learn of Rumplestiltskin's role in the curse, anger. In the end, they will turn on him, his friend and his beloved and everyone else, turn on him, and then turn away in disgust. As everyone always has.

"How sad," he overhears the teacher say to the waitress one morning, just before he enters the diner. "The only way he can persuade anyone to come around him is to pay them."

"Might be sad," the waitress allows, "except he brings it on himself."

"He's an odd one. Impeccible manners, and always so well put together, but. . . ."

"if you touched him, you'd get frostbite, he's that cold."

"Still, Belinda speaks well of him."

"Belinda speaks well of everybody."

Then Gold yanks the diner door open and crosses the threshold, and they stop talking.

Weeks, months pass and stubborn Emma digs in to Storybrooke but seems no closer to believing, and the late-night voice that has been whispering to Gold of the intimate, passionate things that Josiah must be doing with Belle in their little white house across town, now starts to snarl. He is Rumplestiltskin, damn it, powerful and conniving; he takes what he wants and those who dare deny him are crushed beneath his boots. He bought Belle, paid a fair price for her–she took his offer willingly; she gave her vow of "forever." She belongs to him, regardless which world they reside in, which names they live under.

So he watches her from his windows, plays dominos with her husband and struggles to be patient with the savior.

* * *

><p>Emma seems no closer to believing, and yet family by family, the curse is starting to–not break, yet, but pull apart at the seams. Charming awakens from his coma. Hansel and Gretel are reunited with their father. Thomas and Ella are reunited and their baby, delivered (and another intricate, elaborate scheme comes to fruition, with the savior owing Gold a large, unnamed favor).<p>

And a change creeps over Belle, so subtle that it's weeks before she becomes aware of it herself–weeks that leave Gold guessing as to whether he's imagining things.

It starts with her coming later to clean his house, so that she's still there, just taking his dinner out of the oven when he walks in at 7:15, as he has every night since Storybrooke was created. The first night it happens, she's embarrassed and apologetic. "Oh! I overslept this morning, got a late start." He doesn't believe her. Not Belle of the Forest nor Belinda of this world has ever overslept. But he pretends to accept her apology and her promise it won't happen again–until it does, the next week and the week after.

He finds she's cooking more than he can consume–double portions, in fact–so he invites her to dine with him. They both pretend her husband will be home late and she's glad to have someone to talk to, instead of going home to an empty house. He wonders what she is telling Josiah, but he doesn't ask; for his part, Dove is just as cheerful as ever. As they converse over her experiments in exotic cooking, he wonders what she finds to talk about with Josiah. Though good-natured, Dove lacks her curiosity, her interest in books and movies. He prefers to talk about the cars he restores as a sideline business, or the results of a fishing or hunting weekend.

Gold opens her ears to classical music; Belle opens his eyes to ballet (alas, only on TV; they both know a trip to New York or Boston is out of the question). Her stays grow later and later. She must, after all, wash the dishes after dinner, and by then she needs to put her feet up for a few minutes' rest before she drives home. As the weeks flow into months, he finds himself seated beside her on the couch each Wednesday evening until ten, when she finally uncurls herself and goes home.

Is it cheating? Not in the legal sense, but there's an emotional and intellectual connection growing (or rather, uncovering itself) between Gold and Belinda, and as Dove comes in the shop's back door each Thursday morning with his fulsome grin and booming "Morning, Mr. Gold" it sure feels dirty. Not enough, though, for Gold to put a stop to it. And how can it be cheating when Belle is Rumplestiltskin's beloved? Gold ponders this often, and feels a stab of comaraderie when a confused Nolan stumbles into his shop and stares in near-recognition at Emma's unicorn mobile. He almost commisserates, too, with the dwarf who's besotted with a fairy/nun (either one untouchable). How much we have in common, Gold is tempted to say to the cuckolded husband and the starcrossed admirer; but not even the fencepost-dense Nolan or the half-drunken Leroy would believe that a monster could love a lady, and she, him.

He finds Belle looking at him sometimes with glances that reveal both perplexity and familiarity . . . bordering on intimacy. She finds excuses to touch him–never suggestively, but not exactly appropriately for an employee. He finds excuses to allow her to touch him. She offers, one evening, to teach him to waltz, encouraging him to lean on her a little, to take his weight off his ankle. She smells of roses, just as she used to, and she flows around him like a summer rain. After she leaves, he has to belt back a scotch to get to sleep that night.

It's nature, it's destiny, the way she touches him, the way he stares after her as she walks out his door. They were meant to be together, and when the curse is broken–and oh, he does some desperate things to push Emma along–they will be; they will be in the open the lovers they are drifting into becoming now in secret. They will awaken to themselves and go out, together, inseparable, into this world to find Bae, to find Rumplestiltskin's redemption, and perhaps they will never go back, not to the fake town or the enchanted castle. His wish fulfilled, they will chase hers, visiting all the places for which she's been collecting travelogues.

It's this certainty that keeps him sane when she walks away on Wednesdays. It's her soul, which wickedness, despite its proximity, has never tainted, and Josiah's loyalty, which worlds have tested over and over but which has never wavered, that keep Rumplestiltskin at arm's length. He sins with her and against them, but only in his dreams.

* * *

><p>And then everything changes again.<p>

She calls in sick one Wednesday, just about the time it seems Nolan will leave his "wife" for Mary Margaret and all of Regina's plans will unravel. Gold misses Belle as he dines alone on canned spaghetti, and he finds dark thoughts creep into his mind as he worries over ways to protect Mary Margaret from Regina while Emma is still getting her act together. He's recognized, ever since the Robin Hood incident, that Belle rehumanizes him, and without her gentle influence, the darkness is harder to resist. It becomes irresistible when, on the following Wednesday, he comes home to find his dinner in the oven and his beloved already gone for the night.

She's left a note on the kitchen counter: "Sorry, Mr. Gold, for missing work last week. Had a bout of morning sickness. Beef stroganoff in the oven. Have a good week. Belinda."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Good lord! Mr. Gold, I–crap, this is awful. Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Every one of the counters shattered! They even smashed the Mickey Mouse phone. About the only things they left alone were the unicorn mobile and the canoe."

"Too high to reach," Gold mumbles.

"Did you call the sheriff yet?"

Gold's mouth twitches; he's tempted to reply _You mean the one I just got elected?_

Josiah holds the curtain that separates the front of the shop from the workroom. He starts to step forward, then reconsiders and retreats back into the workroom to examine the back door. Gold is behind him, standing at the workbench, silent and revealing nothing in his expression as he polishes a brass candlestick.

"No damage to the back door," Josiah comments. "Didn't appear to be any to the front, either. I don't want to walk out there, maybe disturb the crime scene." He runs his fingers along the window sill. "No damage here." He turns to face his employer. "You didn't accidentally–nah, you never leave the door unlocked. Bet this had something to do with the election results. Some of Ms. Mills' goons."

"Never mind, Mr. Dove." Gold doesn't make eye contact; he simply continues to polish the candlestick.

"I'm the only other person in this town has a key for this shop," Josiah produces his keyring from his pocket. "And I swear, Mr. G., this key never left–"

"Never mind, Mr. Dove."

"–my. . . ." Dove stares in amazement at his boss as he begins to figure things out. He drops the keyring into his pocket and just stares.

"It's been quite some time since you've had a day off. Why don't you go home, Mr. Dove? Consider it my congratulations on your delightful news." Gold still doesn't look up.

Josiah swallows hard. "I'll, uh, see you tomorrow morning, then."

"Enjoy your day."

Josiah turns to leave, but pauses with his hand on the doorknob. His voice reveals bewilderment. "Mr. Gold?"

The pawnbroker finally looks up.

"There's shards of glass sticking to your jacket."

* * *

><p>He closes the shop for a couple of days, retreats to his cabin, where Belle and Belinda have never been, where there's no trace of her except in dreams. Someone has been here–someone broke the lock and came in and used his blankets, leaving them in a musty heap on the rocking chair. He builds a bonfire outside and burns them. Later he'll send Robin Locksley, the locksmith, out here to affix new locks. Josiah could do it, of course–would expect to, if he knew about the cabin; repairs are a big part of his job. Hell, Josiah's feelings would be hurt if he found out Gold hired Locksley. But there's no way to explain it that doesn't lead to more questions, more hurt: I don't want you to know about this place, where I come so I can stop thinking about your wife.<p>

This is a fishing cabin. Nothing here is soft or sweet. But he dreams about her anyway. He gives up and goes back to work.

* * *

><p>It's a slow afternoon–many of them are–so Josiah's been sweeping up in the backroom. But mostly, he's been talking about the baby, showing off the sonogram image. Gold can't make out anything, but Josiah swears he can.<p>

"Up for a rematch?" Gold snaps, just to get him to shut up.

"Sure." Dove pushes his little pile of dirt into a dustpan and dumps it in the trash. He sits down at the workbench.

Gold opens the domino drawer, but something nasty takes hold of him and he wheels around instead, unlocking from a glass case a handcarved chess set he acquired from a Chinese emperor in another life. "How about something a bit more challenging?"

Dove shakes his head. "Sorry, Mr. G., I couldn't give you a decent game. Never played chess before."

"I'll teach you. It's not much more complicated than checkers."

"I don't know. I've heard it's hard to learn . . ."

"I'll go easy on you until you do."

That's a lie. Gold plays as though blood is at stake. Dove reddens, sensitive enough to suspect what's going on but unwilling to distrust a man he considers to be a friend. Game after game, Dove becomes so flustered he can no longer remember the names of the pieces, let alone how they move.

The postal carrier rescues him. As he goes to the front to take the mail, Dove chuckles nervously. "Sorry to let you down, Mr. G. Dominoes is more my speed. But I hear Archie's a good player. You should ask him next time." He lays the mail on the workbench for Gold to sort. "I should take the storm windows down now. I'll wash the primary windows while I'm at it."

Gold stares at the rook in his clenched fist. Well, no one ever accused him of fair play, but he doesn't feel much like a winner right now.

* * *

><p>He smells her perfume on his bedspread. At first he wonders if she lay down here when she cleaned today. Did she curl up on his bed, thinking of him, clutching his pillow? He allows exactly five minutes of that fantasy before he scoffs aloud. She just made the bed, that's all, that's enough to leave a trace of her perfume. If she lay down here at all, it was to rest; in her condition, she must tire easily.<p>

That night he can't bear to lie in his own bed. He moves into one of the guest rooms. Permanently. When he leaves for work on Wednesdays, he locks that bedroom. She must notice, but she leaves no note to ask about it.

* * *

><p>"How can you work for him?" A young woman seated across Belle is asking as Gold enters Granny's Diner. "You know what he did to Ashley, don't you? If not for Emma–" She suddenly leans back in the pleather booth as the subject of her gossip enters and ambles to the counter.<p>

But Ms. Dove is seated with her back to the entrance and, caught up in her frustration, doesn't catch the alarm in her companion's face.

"How do you know? You only heard one side of it, right?" Belle blurts. "No one, not even Josiah, has heard Mr. Gold's side of it. I mean, suppose you were an attorney and a nineteen-year-old came to you and said, 'I'm pregnant with a baby I can't take care of and my boyfriend dumped me and I'm broke. Can you find a good home for this baby?' What would you say? What about the baby, huh? Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Gold was thinking about what was best for the baby that Ashley and Sean didn't want. Ashley did sign a contract, remember." Belle throws a wad of dollars onto the table and slides out of the booth. "Sorry, I have to go."

Gold spins around so his back is to her as she storms out.

* * *

><p>About the time that Emma foolishly aligns herself with Sidney, Dove fails to show up for work. He's never done that, never even been late, so Gold is concerned; he phones, but his call goes directly to voice mail.<p>

A few minutes after he opens the shop, Regina barges in. "Doing your Mother's Day shopping early, Madame Mayor?" Gold mugs at her from behind the counter. "Ah, but alas, I can't provide shipping to the Enchanted Forest Cemetery."

Regina narrows her mascaraed eyes. "Funny you should mention mothers, because I happen to have some news about one: seems your trained ape's spunky little bride–"

Gold bares his teeth. "When you speak of Mr. or Ms. Dove, you will do so respectfully or not at all–please."

Regina's mouth clamps shut and she appears momentarily startled. Then she draws in a deep breath, adjusts her blazer indignantly, and glares at him, her eyes saying what her lips can't. "As I was saying, I have news: your. . . employees. . . are at the hospital. Seems Ms. Dove had a scare this morning, thought she was having a miscarriage, so her husband rushed–"

"A what?" Gold can't prevent the quaver in his voice, and Regina studies him closely.

"Why, Mr. Gold, if I didn't know you to be an unfeeling bastard, I'd think that was concern in your voice." She leans forward, sneering, but behind her stare, he detects uncertainty. She's beginning to wonder, he realizes, if he intends to do something about Belle.

He's not ready to show his cards yet, although he'd enjoy nothing more at this moment than to wrap his claw around her lovely throat. But he blinks innocently. "Hardly. But that information is newsworthy, indeed, pregnancies being so rare here. But I interrupted you. You had something more to tell?"

"Simply that it was a false alarm. Whale will keep her overnight for observation, but she's expected to be released in the morning. She had some spotting, but Whale says it's not that unusual."

"Really? You seem to have been given a great deal of information that most people would consider private." He blinks at her again. "Or is Ms. Dove another on your list of emergency contacts?"

"Nothing gets by me, Gold; you should know that by now. Nothing." She spins on her high heel and marches out.

As soon as she's gone, Gold's on the phone. Regina's not the only one with contacts at the hospital. His hand shakes as he dials, but he manages to make his inquiries sound all business. When he's finished, his hand isn't shaking any more. Coolly, as though he's just an employer demonstrating common manners, he phones Game of Thorns to order a get-well basket delivered to the hospital–not their largest basket, for that would raise suspicion, but not their smallest, for he's the wealthiest man in town and the Doves have worked for him forever, so some generosity is expected. His tasks completed, he wanders into his workshop to put on the teakettle, but he drops onto his bench instead, his head in his hands.

* * *

><p>Dove shows up for work on time the next day, but he's not really ready to work. He needs to talk about his fears for his wife and child, and Gold just happens to be in his path. He talks it out, not noticing that Gold doesn't answer, not noticing that he's not the only man who cares about Belinda's welfare.<p>

"Doc says it's common in the first trimester. Ran a bunch of tests. Belinda and the baby are fine, he said. No reason we can't have a healthy baby and a normal delivery. Still, it was a helluva scare."

"She needs to ease up," Gold finally says. "I'll reduce her hours but keep her pay at the same level. Half a day, once a week. I'll get temporary help for the heavy work."

"She won't agree to that: the same pay for half the work. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay, she'd say."

"We'll change the job title, then. Instead of a housekeeper, she'll be my cook. She can come in twice a week, three hours a day." He tries to smile reassuringly. "I'm still getting a good deal."

"I think she'd accept those terms." Josiah holds out his bear paw of a hand and Gold shakes it. "Thanks, Mr. G."

* * *

><p>She comes now on Mondays and Wednesdays. She continues her experiments in exotic cuisine and dines with him to keep him company.<p>

In the weeks she was avoiding him, she gained a little belly. Her ankles swell but her energy and spirits have risen. She still hangs around after she's washed the dishes. _The Best of the_ _Boston Ballet_ comes on Monday nights, and Gold has an Ultra HD 4K.

He wins her over with pixels and pirouettes. Nutcracker, indeed.

* * *

><p>One Monday night, as they're watching Swan Lake (and in the back of his mind, Gold is scheming ways to bring the natural-born dragon-slayer out in Ms. Swan), Belinda is rubbing her aching ankles. It's so natural a gesture he isn't even thinking about it (he's wondering if Charming's sword will be too heavy for Emma) as he reaches for her: Gold simply pulls Belinda's feet into his lap and massages them. He knows a great deal, of course, about the relief of ankle pain.<p>

Belinda settles deeper into the couch, lays her head on its arm, closes her eyes. A small sigh escapes her slightly parted lips.

His body stirs before his mind does, but gradually he becomes aware of his name being. . . moaned. . . in a half-asleep voice. It doesn't help the least bit when Belinda adds, "That feels wonderful. Please. . . don't stop."

He doesn't stop. He'll pay dearly for it tonight after she leaves. After she goes home. To Josiah.

And when Emma's slain the dragon, Regina will pay dearly for her prank on him and Josiah and Belle.

* * *

><p>She talks less these days about Josiah and more about the baby and the nest she's building for the littlest Dove. Gold supposes that's to be expected; he missed out on Milah's pregnancy, so he doesn't know much about expectant moms. He doesn't mind at all when Belinda yammers on about the tiny clothes and furniture she's buying. In fact, he buys her an iPod, which he loads with Brahms, Chopin, Mozart and Delius; when she's resting, she listens to it, and they believe the baby may be listening too.<p>

* * *

><p>Josiah hands Gold a cup of coffee, then pouring one for himself, leans against the counter. "Once it's cleaned and those nicks are sanded out, it'll be a really nice frame." He gestures with his mug at the portrait frame Gold has laid out on his bench for examination.<p>

"I think I'll leave the nicks in," Gold says. "They add character."

Dove lets the steam from his mug warm his face: he's just come in from outside, and it's rainy today. He takes a test sip, then determines the coffee is still too hot to drink and lets the mug sit in his hands a while. "We decided on names last night."

Gold's hands freeze in their examination of the frame. "Oh?"

"It was pretty easy, actually. We agreed Belinda would choose the girl's name and I'd choose the boy's. So if it's a boy, Albert, after my father."

No, it isn't, Gold is tempted to retort. Your father was a nameless bird.

"And Adelena if it's a girl."

In mid-reach for his mug, Gold knocks it over and the coffee splashes onto the frame. Josiah grabs a rag and swabs up the coffee before it can drip onto the floor.

"Adelena," Gold repeats. "Haven't heard that name in years. How did you choose it?"

"An old family name. Belinda thinks it was one of her great-grandmothers, maybe."

Oh, no. This name choice is from Belle, Gold is sure of it; she's awakening, reaching out to him through the fog of lies.

_**Your father? What was he like?**_

_**I don't want to talk about him.**_

_**Your mother? **_

_**Died when I was too small to remember her.**__ Rumplestiltskin scowled at Belle, the nastiness rising up in him. He would punish her for making him dredge up ghosts best left in the graveyard. __**Of Cupid's Disease**__. When she failed to react, he sneered at her. __**I don't suppose a **__**lady**__** would know what that is.**_

_She dropped her voice. __**Through the years of the war, I tended soldiers in the village hospital. I know of the disease.**_

_His fingers twittered in nervous shame, yet he couldn't bring himself to apologize; he was supposed to shock. Instead, he offered a small revelation, something no one else living in this world knew: __**I was raised by my father's aunts. They taught me to spin. Maerwynn and Adelena.**_

_**Lovely names**__, Belle said. __**I think they must have also taught you to be a good man.**_

_He snorted and walked away._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The plot has Regina's big old fingerprints all over it. He realizes that the moment he finishes writing out the list of stolen items; he knows both the who's and the why's. Moe wants revenge for Gold and Dove having repoed the delivery van, and an ignorant job he's made of it too; half the stolen pieces aren't worth the price of the brown paper it would take to wrap them. One of the items is even broken. But then, the theft isn't really about the objects. It's about Regina forcing Gold's hand.

He doesn't disappoint her. He and Dove are lurking in the shadows when Moe arrives home after work, the day after the break-in. They make no actual threats, as a puzzled Moe will admit to Emma later; their very presence is sufficient to elicit a confession and surrender of the stolen loot–all except the object Gold most cares about.

Belle phones him. Her words come in spurts; she's ashamed and concerned he'll blame her. After all, she has a key for the pink house and knows better than anyone where the valuables are.

In an explanation that reminds him of her husband, she pleads, "Mr. Gold, I promise you, I've never told my father anything about your house. I keep your key on a ring with my keys. He never had access to it–"

"It's not your fault," Gold assures her. "Moe smashed a window and got in that way."

"Believe me, I've never spoken to Dad about working for you." He realizes she's afraid she's lost his trust and that matters to her more than the possibility of losing her job. "I assume he knows–everyone seems to–but I. . . Mr. Gold, I wouldn't betray you."

Her choice of words cuts him deeper than the loss of their chipped cup. "It's all right, Belinda. I know you didn't have anything to do with the burglary. I trust you completely. I, of all people, know how wrong it is to blame the child for the parent's crimes." It's a good thing she called instead of coming by; if she were here, he'd embrace her.

"Are we okay, you and me?"

"More than okay. Hey, how about your specialty tomorrow night? We both could use a pick-me-up."

"Sure, glad to." She laughs in relief. "Chocolate souffle it is. Thanks, Mr. Gold."

He goes alone that night to Regina's mansion, waiting until the light in Henry's bedroom goes out. He would rather have Dove with him, but he's not sure if that's because of what Regina might do or because of what he might do. But he has a pretty good idea that things will be said that Dove isn't ready to hear. After all, it's Belle's chipped cup that Regina ordered Moe to steal.

He manages to rein in his temper; it's the only way to keep–not the upper hand, for he's sure now one of his biggest secrets is out, but an even hand. He reminds himself that she could have withheld the revelation of her knowledge of his secret: clearly, she's scared, and that's why she forced this showdown. "Well, you really wanted that little chat, didn't you?"

"Apparently this is the only way I could do it."

Yes, it was. If he'd had his say, he would have stayed undercover as Mr. Gold until Emma broke the curse. But when Regina demands his name in exchange for the cup, he reveals it. Some instinct tells him that this cup is the key to Belle's recovery after the curse breaks: his possession of it, his fight to protect it, will show her, as nothing else can, that his love for her has always been true. And she's going to need to hang onto that thought when his role in the creation of the curse becomes known.

So Regina gets the information she wants, but he notices a tremble in her perfectly painted lips when he speaks his true name aloud for the first time in twenty-nine years. Her nervousness brings some balance of power back; he supposes, in a way, he's won the showdown, because she's certain now the curse is broken for him and he will, most certainly, seek to destroy her for what she did to Belle. The only questions are when and how he'll take his revenge.

It's always good to keep the enemy guessing, he thinks as he sets the cup in a velvet-lined box and carries it to his car.

He could almost feel sorry for Regina, for her only hope of a protector when the lynch mob comes for her is Sidney. She must be ruing the day she decided to attack the people Rumplestiltskin loves, but it's too late for apologies now, much too late.

But he will throw her off-balance before he throws her under the savior's bus: he comes to her, a few days later, and offers a plan for getting rid of Mary Margaret, a murder rap, and Regina bites. It's going to require a lot of heavy lifting on Gold's part, and with his bum ankle and twenty-nine years of soft living it will be a literal pain, but it will expose Regina's vendetta in such a way that Emma can no longer excuse it. Once Emma knows that Regina will do anything to destroy Mary Margaret, the sheriff will rise up, become the savior she's destined to be, and at last break the curse.

Taking the Evil Queen down along with it, of course.

It all begins with staging a murder.

* * *

><p>"What do you think will happen to Mary Margaret?" Belle's eyes are red-rimmed as she glances up from the salmon she's taking out of the oven. She doesn't know the teacher all that well, but the whole town's in shock with the first murder in its entire memory (or so they think. Soon they'll know the truth about Ms. Nolan, but will they ever learn the truth about Graham's heart attack?).<p>

"I can't discuss specifics of the case." He sets his briefcase on the kitchen counter. Inside are photocopies of records he's obtained from the sheriff, and tonight he will pretend to study them as they listen to the London Symphony Orchestra: but his pretense is only to assure Belle. "But I can say I have every confidence in her innocence."

Her mouth twists into a sad smile, and as he's skimming a finger across the icing of her Boston cream pie, she grasps his sleeve, leans into him and kisses his cheek. He blinks at her in surprise, then looks away quickly so she won't see his longing for more. "Thank you," she says, "for defending her."

He mumbles something about everyone's Constitutional right to a trial, then quickly changes the subject. But it's not because of attorney-client privilege, as Belle thinks; it's because of his own guilt. Soon Ms. Nolan's and Ms. Blanchard's suffering will be over, and soon the town will wheel on Regina like a mother mongoose after a cobra. They may never take the time to find out who's really behind this frame up.

Gold knows better than anyone that everything comes with a price. He'll have his revenge; better still, he'll protect Belle and Adelena from future attacks by the Queen; but he'll have to pay a steep price for it. He just hopes the price won't include Bae.

* * *

><p>Yesterday the savior asked Gold for his help in rescuing Mary Margaret from a murder charge.<p>

In his morning chores, Gold spends extra time sharpening Charming's sword.

In the evening, he stands over the sink to eat a can of ravioli, because it's Thursday. He rushes through the meal and makes his way down to his basement, where Belinda's never been. There are certain books there that he doesn't want anyone to see. Some men stash porn away; Gold stashes books about magic.

It's time to brush up. Just as soon as the savior's finished breaking the curse, she's going to rescue magic (unwittingly, of course) and then, between his magic and her bondswoman superpowers, they're going to find Bae.

He hopes the baby will be born before then. A pregnant woman shouldn't fly in her last trimester (Gold spends his alone nights reading about such things. He's always been a planner.)

He begins researching the spells he figures he'll need, including some defensive and offensive moves against pickpockets, muggers, TSA agents and Regina, who's going to pose a problem once she sniffs the magic in the air. He intends to strike first: prepared, he will gain control of his faculties before she does. He may be able to disarm her quickly, exact his revenge, then leave the rest for the Charmings.

There are a few ways to drain a sorceress of her magic–not many, and requiring rare materials that may not exist in this world, but he came well supplied. Along with his traveling spells, he begins to research those ways.

Belle will fuss when he takes revenge, even though it's on her behalf, and the baby's; he will strike fast, strike once, so Belle will have no time to intervene. But stripping Regina of her magic, surely Belle will see the good in that. As much damage in this world as she's done with only her money and her clout, surely Belle will see that a magic Regina would be catastrophic. And this town is full of innocents, soon to include two babies. Belle won't interfere when he takes Regina down, will she?

And he will have to. Despite Ms. Swan's assurance that she'll go "as far as it takes," he knows better than to expect her to disregard her scruples. She is, after all, the daughter of two heroes; that's why he elected her sheriff–and savior.

* * *

><p>He waits for a Friday night, so there's no chance of running into the Doves, or much of anyone, for that matter: it's 3 a.m. and even the Rabbit Hole is closed. The engine of the RAV4 EV he's "appropriated" from Aladdin Toyota makes no sound as he rolls through town to the back of the public library. He enters the library through a side door hidden behind a mural, enters an elevator that really does function with the push of a button, arrives at the basement and walks along the rim of the cavern where Malificent slumbers, using only a flashlight to guide him. The path leads him into a chamber that resembles a storage area for mining supplies, but that's an illusion of the curse: no mining was ever done here. It took him five trips and cost him a day laid up in bed with his throbbing ankle, but he furnished this chamber, some weeks ago in the dead of winter, with a space heater, a generator, a cot, blankets, books, canned food and bottled water, and a pair of electric lanterns, all in preparation for his unwilling guest. She's been living here, chained by the ankle to the ground, for three days while the town searched for her, then another three days after she was pronounced dead.<p>

He cuts off the generator before he enters the chamber. The lanterns go out and his guest calls, "Hello? Who's there?"

He shoots her thigh with a tranquilizer gun and waits. He knows the exact dosage for her weight, so it doesn't take long before Kathryn Nolan staggers to the cot and conks out.

Now comes the hard part: he lifts her in a fireman's carry and hauls her into the elevator. Once outside, he makes a dash for the SUV and nearly drops her when he pushes her into the back seat. Exhausted, he slides behind the steering wheel.

Next kidnapping, he's going to hire away one of Regina's goons, someone he can assign the dirty work to. Gold is just too old for this sort of thing.

He drives out into the woods–well away from anything identifiable, especially his cabin. He spreads out a blanket on the ground (it's still early spring and a bit chilly), drags Kathryn from the car and lays her onto the blanket. He leaves a bottle of water and a granola bar beside her. He's halfway back to the highway when he remembers he forgot something she'll need, so he goes back to slip a compass into her coat pocket. He's marked a big X at due east: he hopes she'll figure the rest out for herself.

By the time he makes it back to his pink house, it's five o'clock and his ankle's killing him. He can't climb the stairs to the porch, so he stretches out in the backseat of his Caddy and dozes until sunrise. He drives to the shop for a wash, a shave and a change of clothes, and at 7:15 drags himself into the diner for his usual. It's only after he seats himself on the wobbly round stool that he notices he's wearing mismatched socks.

A shriek pierces the morning quiet. People around him scramble; he stirs Sweet 'n' Low into his coffee and waits. He merely raises an eyebrow and continues to munch his dry toast when Granny runs in, shouting at the wait staff, "Ruby just found Kathryn! Alive!"

Mr. Gold checks his pocket watch. 7:32. Any minute now, the ambulance will arrive to take Ms. Nolan to the hospital. Emma will run to the jailhouse to release Mary Margaret. And Regina will be storming the pawnshop, demanding to know why Kathryn's alive and Snow White isn't being hauled out of town on a murder rap–across the town line, where the curse will do something horrible to her.

Gold sighs wearily. Ms. Swan had better get her curse-breaking rear in gear fast. He can't take much more of this excitement.

Not with a baby due in four months.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**A/N. Confession time: the first three sections of this chapter are out of order for the series: they're based on "Dreamy," so they should have come before the Kathryn kidnapping, but, well, I just now thought of them and they add an element to the growing relationship between Belinda and Gold, so can we pretend I messed around with series order on purpose? If you're a Rumbeller, I think your tolerance will be rewarded. If you're not a Rumbeller, maybe you can call it dramatic license or chalk this up to the fact that it's a story in progress.**

* * *

><p>BelindaBelle may be losing faith in him. He perceives that her defense of his behavior is growing shaky when he opens the door to the diner one morning and hears her arguing with Ruby. "He's just looking for an excuse to throw them out onto the street," Ruby's claiming (and it's true). "One day late in their rent and he'll evict them."

"Well, they did know that when they signed the lease." But Belinda can't look Ruby in the eye. She changes the subject. "We should help Leroy and Mary Margaret sell those candles. If everyone in town bought just one–"

"I have a better idea," Ruby purrs. "Nobody gives two hoots for those ugly old candles, but every man in town would pay through the nose for a kiss from a pretty girl."

Belinda sputters. "What? You're not suggesting–"

"Yup. You, me, Emma, Ashley and a kissing booth. Ten dollars a kiss."

"That's more than a hundred kisses for each of us."

"Yeah, but they'll pay up, so pucker up, sister."

"Oh, I don't–"

Ruby feigns offense. "It's for the nuns!"

* * *

><p>At the Miners Day Celebration, there's a long line at the cotton candy booth. There's a long line at the kettle corn booth. But the line that stretches all the way past the courthouse and to the library steps is the one leading to the kissing booth. Seven ladies and two men (Whale and Hopper) have been recruited for the work, and those who, like Belinda, are wed, have refused to kiss their spouses all month long, so that the husbands will indeed pay up. Josiah, who finds the whole thing uproariously funny (though he hasn't said as much to Gold, considering the town views the landlord as the villain of the nuns' story) has been skipping his lunches to save his pennies. He has enough for five quick kisses from his wife–or one very long one.<p>

Gold has never attended a Miners Day Celebration, or any other celebration, for that matter. But in tiny ways, he finds his habits and his way of thinking are shifting. Besides, now's a fine time to provoke Regina.

So he strolls down from his shop and just as Madame Mayor is on stage yammering about what a wonderful town they've been blessed with, Gold makes his way to the foot of the stage. Though he's small and slight, the crowd parts for him; no one will stand within arm's length. Madame Mayor is patting herself–she uses the term "our city administration"–on the back for running such a safe and clean little town, and the crowd's dead silent because they're thinking of Kathryn, and suddenly, Gold snorts. That's all, just a single snort. He leans on his cane and blinks innocently, while Regina gapes at him and a titter ripples through the audience, eventually growing into a guffaw. Regina shuffles the papers on which her speech is printed and courageously plows on, but nobody's listening any more except Sidney.

Slowly, as though totally unaware he's being watched, Gold turns his back to the stage and walks away.

* * *

><p>As she serves him dinner, Belinda fills him in on what he missed, concluding, "and her face turned as red as her blazer. Right after you left, most of the audience wandered off to the booths, so hardly anyone was there to hear her when she finished. Sidney was the only one to applaud."<p>

"I'd heard that same speech before. I saw no reason to waste my time listening to it again," Gold comments. "Was the event successful?"

Belinda stops stirring the hollandaise sauce. "We're five hundred dollars short," she admits. "I know the rent's due tomorrow, and I know you don't usually–"

"Ever. I don't ever." He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. "The hollandaise is scorching."

"Right." She turns away to rescue the sauce. When she sets a platter of halibut steaks on the table, she finds a fan of five one-hundred dollar bills where his napkin had been.

She picks up the money and holds it a moment, thinking. "You don't make charitable donations."

"No."

"Or loans."

"No."

She thinks for a moment more, then folds the money and slips it into her jeans pocket. Without hesitation she frames his face with her hands and kisses him.

It's not a kissing-booth kiss. It's not a lover's kiss. And though it lasts longer than it should, it's nowhere near enough for him, but he keeps his hands in his lap and his lips closed because she is still the wife of his only friend–and that's the _only_ reason he holds back.

When she draws away, her pupils are dilated and he has to look away, to the halibut, to catch his breath.

"I'll. . .pay you the other forty-nine later," she says, busying herself at the stove.

He won't put her in a compromising position. He's seen in her eyes what–or rather, who–he needed to see, for now. "Not necessary. That was. . . value for the money." He offers her an easy way out: "I believe there's some sorbet in the freezer that will go well with our dinner." He rises and digs around in the freezer, allowing the blast of cold air to cool his overheated face.

* * *

><p>Belinda says she's proud of him for what he did for Mary Margaret. The whole town's talking about his generosity in defending the teacher without requiring payment. It stuns them (makes some of them suspicious, he knows).<p>

He will have to tell Belle the truth, when the curse breaks: inform her that he's the bastard who put Mary Margaret in jail to begin with; even worse, he's a kidnapper. These crimes are, sad to say, just another day at the office for the Dark One, although this time his motive was unselfish: to prevent Regina from launching a direct attack on Snow. Now that it's all over, Storybrooke has one highly frustrated and vulnerable mayor, one less sham marriage, one reunited pair of True Loves, and a mother and daughter whose bond of trust has been tested and proven unbreakable.

Isn't that worth a few days of an abduction and a false murder rap? Belle will say no, but it was the only plan he could come up with on such short notice, once he realized Regina was on the verge of attacking Mary Margaret.

Still, he's pretty sure Belle won't see it that way. Alone at night in his study, he writes out his explanation on his legal pad. It goes through a dozen revisions and he still can't make it sound justifiable in terms Belle would accept.

He comes to understand why: his relationship with Belle is the only relationship he's had in centuries that isn't about power. In the very beginning, he tried to make it so, but he found he couldn't scare her with dungeons and morbid jokes; and then he found he couldn't bring himself to harm her, even a little, just enough to prove he was her master. It wasn't long after that that he realized he didn't want to be.

Perhaps, he decides after the thirteenth try at writing his apology, the confessions can wait. Once the curse is broken, there will be so much else to deal with. After he has Bae back, after the situation with Dove is worked out, after Adelena is born. . . and raised. . .and has a few children of her own. . .someday when he and Belle are warming their old bones in the afternoon sun, rocking on their porch in their creaky rocking chairs, someday when Belle's hearing aid isn't working right, he'll take her hand and confess to all his crimes. If she has any inclinations then about leaving him, he'll hide her walker.

* * *

><p>He keeps staring at her belly. There isn't much to stare at, yet, but he stares whenever she's preoccupied with something else. He's captivated by the realization that a human being resides in there, sometimes sleeping, sometimes awake, sometimes sucking her thumb, and, he presumes, often thinking (about what? About the world she came from before she was sent to this one? Is Adelena taking in impressions of the world through her mother? Or has she been on this earth before and is she remembering?).<p>

The creation of a human being is, he thinks, the ultimate magic; childbirth is the original portal jump.

Belle catches him sometimes, but his staring doesn't make her uncomfortable; the amazement on his face amuses her. He explains to her in hesitant phrases that he is a father to a child he's long been separated from; she's curious, of course, but doesn't press for details and when he adds that he doesn't know where his son resides these days, she doesn't do the Belle thing–doesn't prod him to search. In this life, Belle/Belinda is a bit more circumspect, a bit more patient with people's failings than she was in the days of the Dark Castle. Belle of the Marshlands was a puller, hauling Rumplestiltskin away from evil impulses; Belinda of Storybrooke is a nudger, directing people in indirect ways. He thinks Rumplestiltskin needed to be pulled, but Gold needs to be nudged.

In any case, he needs her in his life, even if she is carrying another man's baby. Both of those thoughts have taken some getting used to. It was only after Regina had declared Belle dead that Rumplestiltskin admitted to himself that Belle was exactly what he had been looking for without ever realizing he was looking: someone who would rekindle his faith in powers bigger than magic, who would restore his ability to give rather than just deal. Someone who would make him want to be human again, and then help him find the path back to his humanity.

Only Belle could change him. He needed her then and his need hasn't lessened. He needs her for the small things, he's thinking as he opens yet another can of slop and stands over the sink to eat yet another meal alone. And just as before, he needs her for the big things, for though he now looks human on the outside, he's still a jumble on the inside and he needs her to help him sort himself out.

But there's the other half of the deal: she's carrying another man's baby. If he could ignore two words of those five, he'd have no problem. If that baby were his, or if somehow, by some tremendous act of magic, that baby had been Belle's alone, he admits to himself he'd be over the moon. He'd gladly give Adelena his name, his home, his wealth, his love.

But in the Enchanted Forest, men seldom were so generous with children not of their blood. That was especially true of the nobility, but even in the peasant class, where Rumple had spent the first forty-five years of his life, and where it was common for women to be widowed early and to remarry, it was uncommon for the stepfather to adopt his new wife's children. Certainly, stepfathers took full advantage of the extra labor that an additional pair of hands, however small, could perform, but seldom did they accord stepchildren the same rights as natural children. Not even–and this had always angered Rumple–the right to call their mother's husband "papa."

Many of the old ways of thinking remained in Gold. In this particular case, Storybrooke had offered no alternative to encourage a man to change his way of thinking, for no one had ever married here, and until Alexandria, no one had ever been born here.

As Gold eats over his sink night after night, staring at Belinda's empty chair and counting the days until Monday or Wednesday, he concludes that he will be the trailblazer, Storybrooke's first stepfather. He needs and loves Belle, and as he watches her body change in shape and hue, he remembers how his life changed when Bae arrived in it–_every_ moment with Bae, he remembers. Oh, and he has so much more to give a child now–not just the money, though that certainly matters: the money will buy him time with the baby. He can close the shop, which doesn't turn a profit anyway; his family can live quite comfortably off the rental properties he owns. Hell, they could live nicely just off the interest from his bank accounts. He could retire, spend his days at home, taking care of and teaching and loving his family.

His family. His wife and his child. When he thinks in those terms, he's over the moon. But. . .Dove's ex-wife, Dove's child. He must think in those terms. Josiah has rights too. The child has the right to know its natural father, and not just legal rights. If Gold were to drive Josiah away, the child would hate Gold. Gold knows that for sure; he is so much wiser about people than Rumplestiltskin ever was.

He's already lost the love of a son; he can't bear the prospect of losing a second child, or watching the pride in Belle's eyes when she looks at him turn to shame for his selfishness.

There is an opportunity here, the dealer inside him points out. A chance for all three adults to parent this baby, if they can forgo possessiveness and old ways of thinking. They have a big advantage: they're standing on the solid ground of friendship.

There are only two questions that remain to be answered: can Belle and Josiah forgive him and learn to trust him again when they learn the part he played in the curse? And can Rumplestiltskin, his posessiveness a defense mechanism against the pain of repeated abandonments, trust that this baby's heart will have room for two fathers?

As he ponders this question, still staring at Belle's empty chair, he realizes what the question implies, and he admits it to himself: he wants this baby to love him, unconditionally, as Belle does. He wants to love this baby, unreservedly, as he loved Bae. He thinks he can.

When he comes home on Monday night to coq au vin and Beethoven on the CD player and a humming Belle, he imagines a high chair parked between his chair and Belle's. He imagines strained peas and stewed apricots and stained bibs and tiny rubber spoons. He imagines babbling undercutting Belle's humming. He imagines himself planting a kiss atop a fuzzy head and being rewarded with "da."

It doesn't matter, not really, if Adelena's last name is Dove, or if she has Dove's nose, or if she calls him "da" too. This is what Gold knows, but sometimes as he stares at Belle's baby bump, what he feels is less noble. In this world and the previous one, he was, after all, a grasping, greedy creature. He's going to need nudges and pushes from both the ladies in his life, if he's going to do things right this time.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Hey, Mr. G., who'd have a key for the library?" Josiah asks as he prepares to take out the trash.

"The library?" Gold glances up from the stack of bills he's paying. "You don't want to go in there, Josiah. It's unsafe." Because in the basement there's evidence of a kidnapping, not to mention a drugged dragon that Emma hasn't got around to killing yet.

"Well, Belinda wanted a book." Dove yanks the drawstring tight, closing the trash bag. "Mary Margaret found an injured bird during that wild storm we had in March, and now Belinda's curious."

"About what?"

"Well, Doc Thatcher told Mary Margaret if the bird didn't reunite with its flock, it wouldn't live long. It'll mourn for its lost mate. See, it's a dove, and they mate for life."

"And did Ms. Blanchard succeed in getting the dove back to its flock?"

"She did. Close call, though. So now Belinda wants to read up on doves. She thinks it's a good sign. For our family, you know, because of the coincidence of our name."

"The mating for life thing," Gold murmurs. "I see. Well, I can vouch for what Thatcher said. In my younger years, I spent a little time with doves. I got to know a mating pair quite well; they built a nest on my estate. It's true: they bond for life. Courage, that was what I called the male; and his mate was Faith. When Faith passed away, Courage stopped eating. I had to feed him with an eyedropper. He was depressed for weeks, but he finally regained his strength, and I suppose, his hope." Gold looks closely into Josiah's eyes for a flash of recognition, any sign of awakening. If a glass mobile could spark a memory in Charming, surely hearing his own name and his mate's spoken could do something for Dove.

Josiah frowns, tilting his head upward and to the right—an indicator that he's reaching for a memory. But it flies away—driven away by the curse—and he sighs in annoyance.

"I have a key for the library. I'll go over at lunchtime and find a book for you."

"Thanks." Josiah picks up the trash bag. "Hey, Mr. G.? What happened to Courage?"

Gold studies his "I Love New York" coffee mug. It's one of a set he bought just after Emma came to town. There's one for London, one for Rome, one for Paris—twelve altogether. Whenever Madame Mayor has interrupted his lunch or his coffee break, she's found him drinking from one of these mugs. They are a promise for the future—to himself, that he will search for Bae; and to Belle, that as soon as they're reunited, he'll take her around the world, as she used to dream of. It's also his little private joke on Regina—his reminder that the curse will be broken—but a joke she's never caught onto.

"He grew strong again," Gold answers Dove's question. "Found work to do, friends, a place to be needed."

"Did he find another mate?"

Gold is slow in replying. "I believe he will. He has such a big heart, it would be a shame not to share it."

Josiah grins, satisfied with the answer. He takes the trash bag out to the alley, closing the door gently behind him.

"A _man_ may love for life too," Gold murmurs to himself. "I was a friend to you once, Josiah. I hope I will be again." He raises the New York mug above his head, brings it crashing down, smashes it against the worktable. A ceramic shard punctures the side of his hand, burying itself there until drops of blood wash it away. He watches the blood drip onto a half-written check (Josiah's pay, as it happens); he needs the distraction. He needs the physical pain, to take his mind off the emotional. But most of all, he needs to punish himself; it's a down-payment for the pain he will soon cost a pair of idealists who believe they've married for life.

* * *

><p>"You broke our deal!"<p>

Those are fighting words with Rumplestiltskin, but Regina doesn't care. He has no magic, so what harm can he do to her?

Then again, what harm can she do to him?

"I've broken one deal in my life, dear, and it certainly wasn't this one."

"Kathryn was to die and Mary Margaret was to get the blame." He would accuse her of possessing unmitigated gall, but he knows that behind her anger is hurt: despite all she's done to him, she still depends upon him as a mentor and confidant. She's still, in many ways, a child, and now that she's hung Sidney out to dry, Gold is the only potential ally she has left.

"Murder seems so much worse here, doesn't it? You can't just turn someone into a snail and then step on them. You didn't say 'kill her,'" Gold reminds her. "We agreed that something tragic should happen to her. Now, abduction is tragic."

"You made sure this would lead back to me, didn't you? You bastard." Regina finally broaches the unapproachable subject. "This is about getting even with me for Belle, isn't it?"

His lips curl. "Oh, it's about many things, but yes, let's start with Belle and your little joke on us."

"Think about it: I did you a favor."

If he hadn't had three centuries of practice in schooling his expressions, Gold's mouth would drop open right now. As it is, he can't keep from raising an eyebrow.

"When you threw her out of your Dark Castle and her father rejected her, I took her in, gave her a home. Really, Rumple, you should be thanking me. And then I brought her along here. Well, you know how the curse works: no True Loves could be matched here. If I'd given her to you as a lover, the curse would have forced you apart. Perhaps it would have made you her philandering husband or her a drug addict. The only way you could be close to her is if she was safely paired off with someone else, someone who was fool enough not to notice when you started sleeping with his wife." Regina is gloating now. She's lost her ally, her curse is breaking and her town will turn against her, but at least she'll win this battle.

His fingers dig into the handle of his cane. "We're through here."

But she leans in and adjusts his tie just to show she dares to touch him. "Poor dumb Dove. Has he figured it out yet, what you're really paying his wife to do?"

"Get out."

She backs away as his hand brings his cane up, even with his chest. "Really, Rumple! Threatening the one person who was thoughtful enough to bring along your little plaything." She turns on her heel and moves to the exit, but she blows him a kiss as she opens the door. "By the way, I see congratulations are in order." Then she makes a small frown. "Or could it possibly be Dove's hatchling? Oh well. Aren't we lucky to live in the age of DNA tests?"

She slams the door.

* * *

><p>In the purchases Josiah made at yesterday's auction there is a box of beech wood, seven boards four feet in length, unblemished. Gold is no woodworker; he normally would offer this treasure to Marco. But as his fingertips trail over the perfect wood, he sees in his mind a detailed image of what this material must become. It won't be difficult, nor long in the making, and it will fill in his alone nights as he listens to Allegri and Schubert. As he sketches the design on brown wrapping paper, he knows where this cradle will go: at the foot of the bay window, the one that looks out onto the garden, in the largest of his spare bedrooms. He will paint the walls, now maroon, yellow, to invite in the sunlight; he will add a row of cutout animals along the baseboards, and he will build low shelves for toys and books.<p>

* * *

><p>Belle's tossing a salad as he walks into the kitchen and peeks into the crockpot. "Good old American Yankee pot roast tonight," she announces. "I thought it was time for some local cuisine."<p>

"The perfect accompaniment for the Boston Ballet's _Don Quixote_," Gold says. "Cooked by an Aussie and served to a Scotsman."

"Are we worldly or what?" She says smugly. "You know, I always did want to travel to exotic places and come home world weary and jaded."

"Someday, I'm sure you will." After Emma gets a move on and breaks the curse.

"Do you ever think about going back to Scotland?"

"No." He's tempted to mention that he's never actually seen Scotland, that nothing about his "past" or hers is real. He wonders if, once she's awakened, she'll want to stay here, living as Belle French-Gold, daughter of a florist, wife of a pawnbroker, or go back to the Dark Castle. Or perhaps they'll start again someplace else. He thinks he'd like Connecticut, but he'll leave the decision to her.

She begins to set the table; he pours glasses of iced tea. They could take supper at the mahogany table in the dining room, but they eat in the kitchen instead, at his suggestion. The table is smaller, the chairs closer together.

"Mr. Gold?"

"Yes?"

"This is going to sound funny, but–did you ever have curly hair?"

He hesitates. He could–should–sidestep the question, but his heart's pounding with the possibility that she. . . .He has to test it. "As a matter of fact, I did, when I lived in a. . .more humid environment. Whatever caused you to ask that, Belinda?"

"I dunno, I–well, I had a weird dream last night. You were in it, and you were talking in a funny voice, and you were sitting in a tall chair, like a throne, except instead of ermine you were wearing–you're gonna laugh–leather pants and a crocodile-skin jacket. You looked like a medieval Jim Morrison."

Sparkly, scaly skin, serpentine eyes, rotten teeth, and what she remembers of his appearance in those days were the hair and the pants? He chuckles. And then he laughs aloud, because that's Belle, his stubborn, strong Belle, pushing and shoving her way through the curse's haze. Now that she's cracked the facade, she'll strike even harder. This is just the beginning: Belle may beat Emma to the finish line.

"Hey, don't laugh," Belle/Belinda protests. "You rocked those pants, dude."

"My dear, it's safe to say that's the first time I've ever been referenced in the same sentence as the word 'rocked.' A compliment, I presume?"

"No kiddin'. You ought to try that look sometime, the pants at least."

He chuckles again. "You'd never believe it to look at me now, but I did own a pair or two of leather trousers in my younger years."

"I knew it! See, I've always suspected there was a wild side to you, buried under all those stuffy suits."

He looks at her closely, and she cocks her head, a small frown forming as she's concentrating. He pushes just a little farther: "Under the civilized layers, alas, I'm a bit of a beast, dearie."

Her eyes widen.

He spreads his napkin across his knee. "Your dream was actually very perceptive. Hit the nail on the head, so to speak; rang the right bell."

Her face twists–confusion, frustration, a hint of alarm. He's immediately sorry for provoking her. He kicks himself mentally: he must bear in mind the overwhelming mix of memories and emotions he experienced in the first few hours of his awakening–and he had the advantage of having prepared himself for it. Belle is in a delicate condition; she must be nurtured through the awakening, not prodded into it. "Are you all right, Belinda?"

"Yes, I. . . just the hormones, I guess."

He dishes up a salad for her. "You'll feel better after you've eaten."

"Yes, that's what it is. I was in a bit of a rush and only had a cup of soup for lunch."

"You mustn't let that happen again." He spreads her napkin across her lap and loads her dinner plate with pot roast, potatoes and carrots.

"No, Mr. Gold, I should be serving you. That's what you pay me for. You shouldn't be fussing over me."

"And you've lived up to your end of the bargain." He pats his stomach meaningfully. "Let me take care of the clean up tonight." He sits down, filling his own plate. "This will be only the second birth in Storybrooke. It merits a fussing over."

"Hmmph! I hadn't realized that. Well, I always have been a bit beyond the norm."

"Unique." He raises his glass of tea in a salute. "And perhaps a trendsetter."

"Really?" She forks up a bite of carrot. "I guess it's like when you buy a new car, all the neighbors want one too."

"I have no doubt Adelena will be an inspiration for a whole new generation of Storybrookers." _And some of them ours, Belle?_ he wants to ask. _I'll love Adelena as if she were of my blood, I promise you, but we have room in this house and in our lives for two or three more, perhaps?_

"Thank you. That's kind of you to say."

"Plain prognostication. Kindness and I are strangers, dearie."

"No. You're just a bit beyond the norm too."

* * *

><p>It's a Monday, as his stomach reminds him, but for the first time since Storybrooke was created, he doesn't hurry home after work. There's only one reason he'd forgo three precious hours with Belle, and that's the reason he's here at all: Baelfire.<p>

His heart pounds as he follows the stranger's motorcycle to the outskirts of town. That motorcycle and Gold's Caddy are the only two vehicles on the seldom-traveled highway leading to the West Woods. Surely the rider—he's been introducing himself around town as "August Wayne Booth"—realizes he's being followed, yet he ignores his pursuer. Booth wants to be followed, Gold concludes, so he makes no effort to hide. Gold's heart pounds all the harder. So many indicators have led to this pursuit: Booth's snooping around the pawnshop, his seeking the Blue Fairy out (Blue! The exact same fairy he turned to, back in the Enchanted Forest), the fairy's remarks about Booth seeking a reunion with his long lost father after "a hard parting," but most of all, unmistakable, is the drawing Gold found when he sneaked into the room Booth rented: a very precise drawing of the Dark dagger.

Rumplestiltskin has dreamt a thousand times of the moment that's about to come. He's changed the setting, changed the timing, changed the dialog like a movie director tinkering with a script. He's imagined finding Bae again in a thousand different ways, but never did he dream that Bae would find him. It means one of two things, two mutually exclusive things: either Bae loves and forgives him, or Bae wants to protect this world from the Dark One. Which could mean Bae's come to kill Rumplestiltskin.

Everything Rumple has done for three hundred years has been to facilitate this moment. He's scared, but his need to see Bae—and his hope that Bae needs him too—has enabled Rumple to throw his fear in the back seat, climb into the Caddy and follow the motorcycle out onto this empty highway. Every moment of Rumple's life comes down to this.

Booth turns off the highway and onto a private dirt road. This road leads to Gold's cabin. "It's him!" Rumple gasps. It has to be: how else would Booth know to turn here? He's done his homework: he knows this is Gold's cabin and he's leading Rumple here, away from the cursed town, so they can talk in private.

Or so he can kill Rumple and not get caught.

As Gold shuts off the engine and slides out from the car, Booth is waiting, looking around. Looking for something.

Gold's heart stops; his tongue is a leaden weight in his desert-dry mouth. "I know who you are. And I know what you're looking for."

Booth stares at him. Something's wrong, something's wrong, but Gold can't see what it is: he's blinded by hope. "Well, then, I guess all the lying can stop, Papa."

It's only after Booth has taken the dagger and turned it on him—turned on him—that Gold realizes what was wrong: Bae's eyes were brown, large and brown like his father's, but Booth's eyes are blue.

Is this the price that Rumplestiltskin must pay for creating the curse?


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The Dark One has been played like an accordion in the hands of a street busker.

He's shattered, too shattered even to smash up his shop. That would require strength and he's been robbed of every ounce. He retreats to his basement, to the books, to the potions he's been experimenting with. He hides there through Tuesday and even through Wednesday as Belle comes and cleans and cooks. He emerges to apologize for missing dinner Monday night; "an opportunity arose–a business opportunity." She answers softly, "You don't have to apologize to me," and he has to duck out fast. Her patience, her kindness—her Belle-ness—makes him want to confess everything.

When supper is ready, Belle taps on the basement door and calls his name, his fake name, softly. When he first hired her, he instructed her to stay away from the basement, and she's always obeyed; though curiosity runs deep in her, honor runs deeper.

And sympathy even deeper. He's silent as she serves the meal (he doesn't even notice what she's prepared, though he manages to remember to thank her and he eats a few bites out of courtesy). She respects his privacy, doesn't attempt even a mundane conversation, and as she clears the table she moves quietly.

Once she's filled the dishwasher, he rises from the table. "Shall we?" he asks, as he always does; it's his invitation to the TV room.

She seems surprised. "Should I leave? Would you rather be alone?"

"Please stay." He sets a hand lightly on the small of her back. "I'm sorry I'm not good company tonight, but I still need. . . .Anyway, it's the Moscow Ballet's _Peter Pan_ tonight." All the more reason he requires her comforting presence. Someday, long years from now, he'll tell her the truth about Peter Pan, but tonight he'll pretend that this world's fantasy represents Pan accurately. Tonight of all nights, he can't bear to think about yet another betrayal.

Gold thinks he would have preferred that Pinnochio stab him in the chest to take the dagger away. It would have been more honest, at least, than pretending to be Bae.

Belinda sits on one end of the couch and he, the other, as proper. She picks up the remote and toys with it but instead of turning the tv on, she twists around to face him. "Mr. Gold? Do you want to talk?" The concern in her eyes slices right through him, right through the wall of disdain he's built brick by hard brick between himself and the world. There's a shimmer in her eyes, the beginning of a tear–that's Belle, he's sure of it, struggling to emerge so she can reach out to him in his terrible need. Belle knows without his explanation that he's cut to the quick. If she could break through, she'd open her arms without a word and he'd clutch her round the waist, lay his head in her lap, and she'd file her fingers soothingly through his hair, just holding him silently as he cried and cussed. And when he finally burnt himself out, she'd say, "August Wayne Booth is not worth another moment of our time. Screw him. We've got a savior to convince and your son to find."

But instead Belinda says, "Mr. Gold? I may not have any answers to offer, but I'm a good listener and I can keep a confidence, if you'd like to talk."

He shakes his head slowly. "Someday, Belle, but not yet. It's too raw."

She toys with the remote again. "Okay. Whenever you're ready, then. Should I turn on the TV?"

He nods, but just before she does, he grasps her wrist. "Belinda, would you call me by my first name?"

"All right," and she frowns. "I'm sorry, I don't know what it is. Your signature on your checks, it's just 'R. Gold."

The curse never gave him a first name. He's not sure he'd use it now, if he had one: yes, this world is very comfortable and the living is far easier here than in the Enchanted Forest; in fact, if not for Regina's little prank, he would probably have stayed here, living as Mr. Gold, after he reunited with his son. But thanks to Regina's sick joke, he's on fire now to recommit to his family and recover himself. . . if he could sort out who that is.

He will dare to at least take back his name–and if Regina should happen to hear Belinda use it, let that be a gauntlet thrown down. He's ready for that fight. "My name is Rumplestiltskin."

A flame flickers in her eyes. "Rumple. . ." He thinks she's remembering, but he soon learns she's just trying the word out. "Rumplestiltskin. An unusual name."

He tries once more. "My family called me Rumple."

"Is that what I should call you?"

His hopes sink to his shoes. "Yes."

She smiles. At least she's not wrinkling her nose at his name; he supposes he should be grateful for small favors. "I'll be glad to. And thank you, Rumple."

He realizes instantly he was wrong. It hurts to hear her use his name but not recognize him. "Let's watch _Peter_ _Pan_," he suggests, worn out by words.

She turns on the television. Tonight they refrain from commenting on the performance. Although there's a yard of space between them, he feels her warmth, listens to her breathe. It helps him to remember that, despite the bitter pill of disappointment he's had to swallow, she's here, alive, safe, and soon she'll return to him; and a baby is coming; and Bae is out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Gold will pull himself back together, go back to work on revealing the dragon-fighter in the swan, but not tonight.

He's not aware how it happened, but when the ballet concludes and he reaches for the remote, he becomes aware that he's been holding Belle's hand—_Belinda_, Belinda's hand.

* * *

><p>The hurt doesn't go away, but he picks himself up and resumes his work. The next few days are critical: Emma is on the verge. She tried to snatch Henry and escape from town last night. That's a good thing, actually: she's desperate.<p>

He goes to the shop every day, as if the world just beyond his door isn't about turn inside out. He repairs, he tinkers, he polishes, he plays dominoes, he eats Belinda's worldwide cuisine, he sits on the couch with her on Mondays and Wednesdays, just as normal, allowing Josiah and Belinda a few more days of feeling secure. He never again holds Belinda's hand, and she says nothing more about the forty-nine kisses she owes him.

She does, however, mention the bedroom he's remodeling. He divides his free hours these days between his basement and that bedroom. "You're painting it yellow," she remarks one day.

"You don't like it?" he asks.

"Well, it's not for me to say. I mean, this is your house—" She shifts from foot to foot. Her ankles are still bothering her, and her back is beginning to ache when she's on her feet for long. She needs to learn a new way to stand, to distribute the added weight.

"I'd like to hear your opinion. You. . . " he almost says _matter to me_. He settles on "have good taste."

"Well, before, the rooms were all color-coordinated."

He smiles slyly. "Perhaps I'll just repaint the others, then, to match."

A week later, the painting's done and he's got a parade of cutout ducks glued to the baseboards. He hasn't built the crib yet, but he's affixed a Winnie the Pooh cover to the light switch and he's placed a restored antique rocking chair in a corner. When he arrives home that Monday, Belinda looks up from the mushroom risotto she's preparing. She isn't humming and she doesn't smile. "Mr. Gold." The way she says it, she's intentionally creating distance between them. "What are you doing in the yellow room?"

He doesn't insult her by pretending he doesn't understand the question. "It's going to be a nursery."

She turns to face him directly. "Why?"

_For Adelena, of course. For our baby_, he wants to answer. "After the baby is born, when you're ready to come back to work. . . so you can bring her with you."

"Oh." Her face relaxes and she returns to her cooking.

"I can always redo it, if she doesn't like yellow. Or ducks." He reaches into the refrigerator for the pitcher of tea.

"That's awfully generous. An entire room, just so I can bring the baby along."

He shrugs. "The room was unused and I was. . . looking for a project to keep me busy." He pours two glasses of tea, doctoring hers with a teaspoon of sugar. "Did I do something wrong? Are we back to 'Mr. Gold' and 'Ms. Dove' again?"

She smiles in relief, accepting the glass. "No, of course not. I was just in a mood. I don't know what I thought."

After sipping his tea, he ventures, "Belinda, I suppose you heard about the contract I had with Ms. Boyd."

"I heard, but—I don't pay much attention to gossip."

"A wise choice. I've heard some of the ensuing gossip about that incident. . . speculation about what I intended to do with the baby. The most prevalent of the rumors seem to be that I intended to sell it on the black market or use it in a satanic ritual."

She snorts. "Jackasses."

"Thank you for that." He seats himself at the kitchen table and loosens his tie. He feels very tired: three centuries of horrid rumors add a heavy burden as well as a lot of weight to a deal maker. Even if he did start some of those rumors himself, in the early days. "Contrary to public perception, I do respect families and have no wish to break them up."

Belinda raises her chin. "I know that. I've seen what kind of man you are, M—Rumple."

"I'd like to tell you how the situation with Ms. Boyd came about and what the outcome would have been, if the contract had been fulfilled." His mouth twitches into a wry smile. "If you promise not to let the story get around town. You see, in business, I've found Machiavelli was right: it's 'much safer to be feared than loved.' People 'will offer you their blood, their property, their life and their offspring when your need for them is remote. But when your needs are pressing, they turn away.'"

She dishes up the risotto and sets the platter onto the kitchen table. "Lao Tzu said, 'Fail to honor people and they fail to honor you.'"

Gold chuckles. "Rumplestiltskin Gold says, 'Fail to honor your contract and I'll see you in court.'"

Belinda sets out a platter of green beans almondine and a bowl of fresh pears, then seats herself. She fills her plate, but leans forward on her elbows. "I would like to hear how it really happened, the contract with Ashley."

"To understand what led to her situation, you first must know about her upbringing. You see, her own mother died when Ashley was small, and her father married a widow with two daughters." He interrupts himself to point a fork at her plate. "Dig in. It's very good."

She spreads her napkin across her lap and forks up a mouthful of green beans.

He continues with the tale, though he has to tell it a bit slant. If he told her about the fairy godmother and the glass slippers, she'd think he was nuts.

"And the family the baby would have gone to?"

He leans forward. "Now, you may not believe me, but there was no family."

She cocks her head. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I did have a list, provided by a colleague in Augusta, and Ashley had selected three couples that she wanted to interview, but it never went that far. Ashley would always find an excuse."

"She didn't really want to go through with it," Belinda surmises. Again she's distracted from her meal, and again he has to nudge her to remind her to eat.

"Nor did Sean. At least, that's what I suspected. The times I went to talk to him, his father was always there, and it was Mitchell who did all the talking. Sean just stared at the floor."

With a large grin, she sits back in her chair. She thinks she has the story-and him-all figured out now. "The adoption was a fake all along."

He shrugs, popping a green bean into his mouth. "You could say that." But not for the reason she's thinking: the adoption was a creation of the curse.

"You knew Sean and Ashley really wanted to be together, but the only way to get him to work up the nerve to stand up to his father was to make him see what he stood to lose."

"You're giving me credit for foresight that I'm sorry to say, this world hasn't bestowed upon me. Actually, I thought, once they were faced with the finality of it, Mitchell would back down. I think it's harder for someone who's been a father to let a child go." What he's told her is the truth, but not all of it: his motivation for dealing with Cinderella has always been, from the very start, to buy, not a baby, but a favor from the savior.

"Still, you never intended to go through with the adoption."

"Oh, I was ready to. One way or another, that baby needed a good home."

"I heard you demanded Emma to promise you a favor before you tore up the contract."

"Contracts are far more than a few sheets of paper. They are symbols of integrity. And what was that you quoted to me just now? 'Fail to honor people'? Living up to one's contractual promises is an act of honor."

"Well, I'm sure you won't have any problems there. Emma's a woman of her word."

"Yes. I believe you're right."

"But the favor. You wouldn't make her. . . like, evict the nuns or something like that?"

"If the nuns break their lease, I would expect the sheriff to assist me in her official capacity, if I needed her to." He smiles. "But you and your friends made certain that would never happen." She blushes and he longs to clasp her face in his hands to kiss her reddened cheeks. "Belinda, if it will set your mind at ease a little, I'll tell you what I intend to ask for my favor. But I'll also ask you not to tell anyone, other than your husband, of course."

"On my honor." She lays her hand against her heart.

"Ms. Swan is a skilled locator of people, and when the time is right, I will ask her to find someone for me."

"Why all the subterfuge? Why not just hire her?"

"'Friendships purchased with money and not by greatness and nobility of spirit are paid for, but not collected.' And it's very important to me that I collect on this particular contract." He pokes at his risotto. "It means the world to me."

"Your son?" she asks gently.

He stands, laying his napkin on the table. "I have some things to do in the basement. Thank you for dinner." His throat tight, he starts to walk away. He needs to spin a while, to get away from the voices: "Papa! You coward!" "I command thee, Dark One!" "You could have fought, Rumple. You could have died." "A child can't have a child." He wonders whether, when he finds Bae, if Bae forgives him, the voices will stop.

"Rumple?" When he pauses, she continues, "Thank you for the nursery."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

As soon as he opens the front door to his house (_their_ home), he can hear Belle humming. He clings to the happiness in her voice like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.

Belle is stirring something in a pot on the stove. Her back is to him as he enters the kitchen (_their_ kitchen). She smiles over her shoulder. "So you're repainting one of the upstairs bathrooms, too." She neglects to mention that it's the bathroom adjacent the nursery.

He shrugs. "I was on a roll."

"Robin's egg blue. I like it."

He knows; it's the color of the first gift he ever gave her, a dress he'd bought for her in Glowshire. As he paints he smiles, remembering the difficulties he had describing Belle's size to the seamstress; after all, he had no idea how much of what he saw when he stared at her was Belle and how much was clothing: skirts and petticoats and corsets and whatnot. He'd finally decided he'd cheat: he chose the dress that he liked best, one whose color matched her eyes, and once he got it outside he enchanted it so that it would adjust itself to the wearer. After that hassle, he'd summoned the seamstress to the Dark Castle and let her and Belle work out the rest of the new wardrobe.

He can't wait for the day she remembers that story.

"I'm glad."

She turns back to the stove. "Did you hear? Kathryn's decided to continue with her plans for law school. After all she's been through, I really admire her."

"Forgiveness requires strength, but she's a strong person." He glances at her hopefully. "As are you."

"Thanks, but I don't think I've ever had much cause to be. Other than difficulties with my dad, life's gone easy on me so far." She spoons up a sample of her current experiment, turns and invites him to taste; she lifts the spoon to his mouth. "My first attempt at homemade spaghetti sauce," she announces. "Too spicy?" She's looking intently at his mouth as he licks the flavor from his lips.

"A dash more basil," he advises, reaching past her to the spice rack. Instinctively, he sets a hand lightly on her back as he leans past her.

She suddenly gasps.

"What's wrong?"

Her eyes widen. She grasps his wrist, presses his hand against her belly. He feels a flutter, gentle as a butterfly wing against his palm. "Feel that?"

"Oh yeah," he breathes. This, too, he'd missed with Milah, though he's not so sure she would have shared such moments with him. It suddenly occurs to him that he never once asked Milah whether she was happy when she discovered she was pregnant. He'd just assumed. . . .

But it's here now, this chance to share in the mystery of the formation of a life. He looks into Belinda's eyes and imagines he finds Belle there, Belle, who would have declared this pregnancy the greatest adventure of all, and who would have welcomed him along for every moment of the journey–he, her husband. Gold's heart sinks to his shoes. He has no right, legal or moral, to this moment. Just an emotional right that only he knows about.

But Belinda keeps pressing his palm to her belly. "I felt something this morning, but it was so faint, I wasn't sure. But that, that was definitely a kick, wasn't it?"

"A kick Beckham would envy," he declares. He lingers, taking this moment that somewhere, deep inside Belinda, Belle is offering him. But it's a moment they're stealing from Josiah and Belinda.

Late that night, long after the spaghetti and the ballet, he sits in his basement, thinking. He's hoping Emma will break the curse before the baby is born, because there's no way the hospital or the Doves will allow him to be present for the delivery. Then again, no matter when the curse breaks, this baby is still Josiah's. For once, Rumplestiltskin draws a blank. He has no idea how to make this work. He only knows the three of them have to.

* * *

><p>It's Belle's strength, so much greater than the power of the curse, that he's thinking of when August Wayne Booth has the nerve to call him to ask for help in making a believer of Emma. That wasn't Belinda reaching out to him to experience the baby's kick, he's certain of it: it was the stubborn, strong Belle. When the curse is lifted, he will thank her, and continue to thank her every day for the rest of their lives.<p>

Leaning on her strength, he agrees to help Booth. No, he hasn't forgiven the fraud, has no intention to; he's a villain, so nobility is not required of him, and he freely tosses sharp barbs when Booth comes around. But Belle, Adelena, Bae and Dove, and most of all, Rumplestiltskin himself, need for the savior to emerge, so he allies himself with the man who lied to him.

Refusing the young mother's plea to help her gain custody of Henry is one of the hardest things he's ever done. His heart bleeds, not just for her, but for himself, because when Adelena is born, he'll be in Emma's boots. As Emma storms out of his shop, he vows that he, Dove and Belle will respect each other, will work to preserve the baby's ties to each of them. Will be deserving of Adelena's pride.

"I was the same age you are now when my son was born. Believe me, I know exactly what you're feeling," he says to Emma, after she's long gone and he can safely speak. "And believe me, no matter how old you get, or how far away your child goes, that feeling will never change."

* * *

><p>Booth is failing miserably in his efforts to convert Emma, and just as desperate, Regina has attempted to lure David into an affair and away from Mary Margaret. It's hard to be patient with all these people, but, unknown to the rest of the world, patience is Rumplestiltskin's greatest strength, a patience made concrete by his bottomless love for Bae and a bracing of stubborn hope.<p>

And the Knowledge. In the old world, he had glimpses of the future: a mother's kiss that will awaken a child from a sleeping curse and awaken a town from the lies it's been living under. His own hand, glowing with magic. An airplane, with the savior seated beside him.

As he paints Adelena's bathroom, he imagines—because he no longer can See, he can only guess—her future. He can't picture her in the Enchanted Forest; she seems a child of this world. Probably, she will have her mother's chestnut hair and her father's rectangular face. But she will inherit qualities from her stepfather as well, and that causes Gold concern.

A great deal of concern.

* * *

><p>"Adelena's been especially fractious today," Belinda comments as she sets the table. She straightens, rubbing her lower back and groaning.<p>

Gold comes up behind her and grips her shoulders, pulling them back. "Stand straight. I know when you're hurting it's tempting to bend in, but if you'll make yourself stand up straight, keep your shoulders back, and when you sit, put a pillow behind you, you'll hurt less." He reaches around her to set a hand against her belly. "Your center of gravity's changed, so your posture needs to change too."

She leans back against his chest, resting her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes. He can feel the baby stir beneath his palm and tightens his arm just a little, bringing himself closer, taking more of her weight onto himself. He has to lean into his cane more to compensate, but he doesn't mind. He would stand like this for hours, their bodies pressed together, her hair tickling his nose, her warmth surrounding and comforting him. Emotions compete for supremacy in him: desire, protectiveness, pride in a child that isn't his, the need to be needed.

They were wrong, back in the Enchanted Forest: there is magic in this land. It flows through every living thing. It's here, beneath the palm of his hand and resting against his shoulder. "Belle," he says, with just enough breath to ruffle her hair, but not enough voice for her to hear him. He lowers his face to her hair to kiss the top of her head.

"You must've gone through this with your wife."

The words break his enchantment. He releases her, hobbles–for his ankle suddenly aches–over to the kitchen table, distributes the silverware to occupy his hands. "Ex-wife. No. I wasn't there during her pregnancy."

"Where were you?"

He can't meet her gaze; he's embarrassed, for surely she knew how close he'd come to kissing her, and that's why she chose this topic. She knows, he's sure, that he doesn't talk about his former wife. "There was a war. I was drafted."

"So you missed the pregnancy, the birth?"

He smiles ruefully. "And the marriage. It seems I was absent from that too." She makes a sad sound, but before she can say anything, he changes the subject. "So what's for dinner? It smells wonderful."

"Lemongrass coconut chicken." But she doesn't move to the stove; she just watches him with disappointment and puzzled longing. Despite her maternity top and jeans and the dash of lipstick and mascara she wears, she's so Belle standing there with her hands folded over her belly, where his hand had rested a moment ago. He can't help but speak her true name. "Belle?"

She finally moves to the stove. "Dinner will be ready in ten. There's time if you'd like to wash up first." As he starts for the stairs, she glances over her shoulder. "Funny, most people would shorten my name to Lin or Lindy; Jo calls me Bindy. You're the only one who's ever called me Belle."

"Is it all right?" He studies her.

"I rather like it." But in her smile there's no sign of recognition.

* * *

><p>Regina storms into his shop, ablaze with anger, frustration and–she thinks she's hiding it, but she's wearing it like a stale cologne: panic. She announces that her apple tree is dying. Gold smiles and makes a dry joke. It won't be long now; even Regina admits it: "The curse is weakening."<p>

He looks hard into her eyes. "Hallelujah."

"You have to help me. You're in this just as deep as I am. You created it."

"Yes, and I told you then that someday, the child of Snow White would break it. It seems, Madame Mayor, that you still have a bit of a hearing problem."

"We've been in this together, from the beginning."

He throws her the only bone left, though he knows she won't bite. "Perhaps you giving up Henry is just the price you have to pay to keep the curse unbroken." He's telling her the truth: she must choose between Henry or revenge, love or hate. But the only reason he tells her the truth now is so that later, when she's kneeling in the rubble of her broken plans, when she's lost both revenge and love, she'll remember he gave her a way to save one or the other, and she in her greed refused to let go of either. And he, who will have his family and Regina's envy, will walk away with both love and revenge.

Still, the queen refuses to cut her losses. She wants magic to fix her problems, so like thousands before her, she calls for a deal–ignoring the fact, though he reminds her of it, that there's (almost) no magic in this world. (He's still telling the truth: he just neglects to mention that he has a method to summon magic here.) She offers anything–how many times has he heard that before? He turns his back on her, offering only one piece of advice: leave town before the awakened mob catches up to you.

Stunned, she walks out.

He might feel sorry for her, except he gave her a way out and she wouldn't take it. He might worry for the welfare of his former student, but then he thinks of Belle, Josiah and Adelena and he's mad as hell.

Until, in moving away from her, he finds himself standing before a globe on his counter and he realizes this world awaits him. It's just days away now: the breaking of the curse, the summons of magic, the reclamation of his beloved, the discovery of his son, the birth of his stepdaughter.

No, the best revenge won't be Regina's loss of everything. The best revenge will be in knowing that the last, most important lesson he offered her, she refused to learn: that if they let go of the anger, love is possible even for the likes of them.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It's Tuesday, so it surprises him to hear humming in his kitchen when he opens the front door. "Winter Dreams" is playing on the stereo.

Waving hello with a spatula, she greets him from the doorway leading from the kitchen to the dining room. She's wearing the basketball shoes he gave her yesterday, and she wiggles one foot at him to show them off. "They're working. My ankles don't ache."

"They should provide good arch support too." He has an excuse now to sneak in an admiring glance at her calves, bare beneath her denim skirt. "But, uhm, did I get my days mixed up? Isn't today Tuesday?"

"It is, but–did Jo remember to ask you about tomorrow?" She comes forward to help him take off his jacket, always a bit of a trial with the cane. A small shudder runs up his spine as her knuckles brush against his cheek. He bites his tongue: a little blast of pain is the only way he can keep from grasping her hand to press it to his lips.

"He did, and congratulations. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time." It's their wedding anniversary tomorrow, Josiah announced this morning, though he couldn't exactly remember how many years they'd been married, and he'd asked for the day off for both of them.

"Thanks," Belinda beams. "We're going out to dinner, then a movie. Anyway, I didn't want you to go hungry tomorrow, so here I am."

Once the jacket's removed, her hands rest on his shoulders, then one of them plucks at his hair at the crown of his head. She clicks her tongue. "Did you go out like this, this morning? And Jo didn't say anything to you? That man of mine–I swear, a person could stand buck naked in front of him and he'd never notice."

Gold clutches at that accusation. Is it possible Belinda and Josiah's love life is lacking? "What's wrong?" He's really wanting to ask, _What's_ _wrong_ _in_ _your_ _relationship_? Oh, but they're going out for a romantic night tomorrow; surely that means they're happy. And he wouldn't want them to be_ un_happy. . . .

But when she takes his hand and pulls him into the downstairs bathroom, he has to admit he's not that magnanimous. She sits him down on the rim of the tub and his hands start for her waist with the intention of drawing her forward . . .she moves between his knees, standing over him, bending, her fingers in his hair. She removes his tie.

"Belle," he chokes.

"Take off your shirt."

"Wh-what did you say?"

She clicks her tongue and starts opening the buttons of his silk Armani. "Take off your shirt. So it won't get wet."

"Wet?" he echoes dumbly, but he obeys her, sliding the open shirt from his shoulders.

But his hopes are dashed when she walks out of the bathroom. "I'll be right back. Stay put! I'm going to scrub that blob of paint out."

He sighs deeply, uncertain whether he's relieved or disappointed. As he waits, he looks around: the bathroom's nice enough, as bathrooms go, but hardly the location he's imagined for their first time. He props his bad ankle onto the lid of the commode and waits.

When she returns there's a towel slung over her shoulder, her sleeves are rolled up and she's carrying a bottle of olive oil–extra virgin, he notices. "Up." She tugs at his elbow until he stands, then she turns the water on in the sink, flits her fingers under it to test the temperature, then demands, "Bend over." His head under the stream of water, she begins to dig her fingers into his hair.

Suddenly Gold discovers an erogenous zone he never knew he had. A low moan escapes him as her fingers massage his scalp. Every ounce of tension washes down the drain as she works the olive oil into his hair, rinses, works in some more, rinses. . . shampoo and rinsing and conditioner and rinsing and he's adrift, steered by her knowing fingers, better than ice cream this is, better than. . . well, it's been two hundred years since he'd taken a woman to bed, and though Cora was uninhibited enough, there was always something calculating about the way she responded to his touch. Something fake. Between Milah, who was never satisfied, and Cora, for whom sex was mechanical, and a few princesses and duchesses who bargained away access to their bodies, he'd concluded coupling was overrated.

As Belinda sits him down, bends over him so close he can see her chest rise and fall with each breath, Rumplestiltskin realizes that though he's taken women to bed, he's never made love before.

Belinda dries his hair with the towel, then blots up the rivulets of water from his shoulders and chest. "I got most of it out. A couple more washings should do."

She brushes his hair as he rests his forehead against her belly. "I hear the baby." His heart aches.

"She's been rambunctious today." She steps away from him, hangs the towel on the rack, and he feels suddenly cold. "I'd better get back to my cooking. Beef Wellington and brussel sprouts tonight, and there's a lamb curry in the fridge for tomorrow." He follows her into the kitchen and she continues, "I don't know what's on TV tonight that we might like. Jo always watches _NCIS_, so Tuesdays are my reading nights."

His beams back at her. She's staying! Normally he'd be working in the basement or the nursery, so he doesn't know what fare television has to offer tonight, but he won't risk scaring her off with the unknown. "I have a new box set I haven't opened yet: the Royal Shakespeare Company's performances of the comedies. You know, _Much Ado about Nothing, Midsummer_ _Night's_ _Dream_–"

She claps her hands. "That sounds perfect with the beef Wellington!" She opens the oven and wonderful aromas spill out. "You've heard of 'bucket lists'? Well, one of the items on mine is to see the RSC perform in the Globe in London."

He almost blurts, _I'll_ _take_ _you_ _there_, but he settles for, "I'm sure you will someday." He sits down at the kitchen table, forcing himself to remember to be grateful for the moment he has in front of him, rather than waste it by daydreaming about the future. She isn't Belle yet, she isn't his yet, but he has the gift of an evening in the company of someone he cares for, and that's more than most of Storybrooke has tonight.

* * *

><p>Alone in his shop, Gold watches the happy couple stroll past his window and enter Dave's Fish &amp; Chips. Jealousy guts Gold like a fish: If she were his, he'd take her to La Tandoor, where he has a private table and a personal wine supply. She's peering up at Dove, and Dove's grinning down at her, and the swelling of her belly announces to all of Storybrooke that this is a family.<p>

Gold wonders how else they will celebrate tonight, when they've gone home and turned the lights out. His gut twists as he imagines Belle naked beneath the sheets, reaching for the man she calls husband, her lips swollen from his kisses. He curses himself: at three hundred sixty-something years of age, he should have conquered his petty jealousies long ago. Besides, the curse breaking is only a week or two away. He retreats to his workroom and begins to build a cradle.

In reality, this is an important anniversary for Josiah, just not the one the curse has fooled him into thinking it is. It was thirty years ago today that Rumplestiltskin granted Courage a wish, in gratitude for the dove's loyal service in delivering messages (actually, in gratitude for the dove's friendship, but the imp will never admit that. Wouldn't do for word to leak out that the Dark One cared). Quite an impressive feat of magic it was too, and no one but Dove ever knew, more's the pity. It had taken hours of concentration and quite drained Rumple: for a full day after, he couldn't summon enough magic to even light a candle. But the result was worth the price, for he'd transformed the dove into a man, a tall, strong, young man. The only part Rumple got wrong was the hair: he forgot to conjure any. Never mind, Dove had said, admiring his reflection in Rumple's fish pond. He ran his brand-new, big, powerful hand over his smooth head.

The imp led the new man into the castle. "What shall you do in this new form? All men need occupation–except for aristocrats." Rumple flourished his hands. "Tinker, carpenter, baker, smithy. There are a thousand choices."

"Can't I continue to work for you?"

Rumple opened and closed his mouth, lost for words. Josiah held the heavy wooden door open, allowing the wizard to pass through first. As their footfalls echoed through the Great Hall, Rumple noticed how empty the castle seems these days, though it's never been more possessed of things.

"As it happens, I'm soon to take a trip and I shall need someone to maintain the castle. Would you be interested in the job?"

"Of course. When will you return, sir?"

"I shant," Rumple muttered. He changed the subject before Josiah could ask for an explanation. "You need a new name, a human name." As they walked to the kitchen–for the new man was suddenly very hungry–Rumple rattled off a list of names. He had quite a collection of them from around the world: learning names and their translations had been a bit of a hobby. The man kept shaking his head, until Rumple suggested, "Josiah. In its land of origin, it means 'healed.'"

"That one. Because you made me well when I was sick."

"Very well, then, Josiah. Let's see what we can find for your first meal as a man. For I'm afraid I can't conjure anything more at the moment." They managed to turn up some dried fruit and a cheese wheel, and considered themselves fortunate, for the kitchen hadn't been used since Belle left.

Two days later, the imp answered a summons from Princess Ella.

Regina hadn't bothered to change Josiah's name or his occupation. Gold wonders why. He won't ask though: he's learned to take advantage of her laziness.

He wonders if, when he takes Belle into the world to find Bae, Josiah will prefer to stay behind again, minding the castle. Or will he agree to follow, so that he can remain close to his daughter?

If this doesn't work out, if Belle or Adelena or Josiah suffers because of the queen's little joke, Gold decides he will introduce Regina to the handle of his cane.

* * *

><p>He finds Belle kneeling in his dining room, the glass doors of his china cabinet propped open before her. She's facing the cabinet, so her back is turned to him. But it's Thursday, one day after her wedding anniversary: she shouldn't be here for another four days.<p>

He hesitates in the entranceway. He feels as though he's intruding upon a private moment–she's so still–and he considers walking back out, leaving her alone with her thoughts, but he's worried. "Belinda?"

She doesn't respond, so he takes a few steps toward her. Her head is bowed as if in prayer.

"Belinda? Are you okay?"

At last she looks up at him, her face pale, her eyes shadowed. Her hands are clasped around something in her lap. Now he's really worried and he hurries to her side. He wishes to sink to his knees beside her, encircle her in his arms, but his bad ankle won't allow him to kneel; he has to settle for bending. He reaches a hand toward her and when she doesn't flinch, he grips her shoulder. "Belle?"

"I had a dream last night." She lifts her hands so he can see what she's holding. "This was important, wasn't it? To us."

She suddenly presses it into his hand, clambers to her feet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here." And before he can argue, she's gone.

"Belle, wait." But she doesn't. Carefully he sets the object back onto the shelf. "Yes," he answers to the air. "It isn't just a cup." And he closes the glass doors.

* * *

><p>Rumor has it Emma's giving up. She's packing up to leave town–to leave Henry. Anyone else would be worried, but not Gold–because he knows Regina. Emma's leaving isn't enough for her, any more than forcing Emma's mother into exile to live as a bandit was enough. True to form, Her Majesty storms back into Gold's shop (won't she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? Isn't it obvious to her by now that it's foolish to tell her secrets to the man who wants her curse broken?). "I found a solution to my Emma Swan problem," she gloats. She claims she managed to bring a small amount of magic to Storybrooke; she plans to twist it into a purpose other than the one that fits its nature.<p>

He's annoyed by that: he spent many, many hours in the Enchanted Forest teaching her the science of magic. She should know better on all accounts. Magic that's been moved between realms is unstable; magic that has been brought to a land in which it doesn't belong is unpredictable. He plans to spend weeks, months if necessary, studying the magic he summons to this world before he attempts anything major with it. And magic that has been wrung from other magic—at best, it's like dubbing from one videotape to another: strength is lost, quality reduced. At worst—well, he once saw the result when a sorcerer drained an enchanted medallion of its magic and tried to use that magic to transport his apprentice across kingdoms. An ogre would look like a beauty pageant queen by comparison with the thing the apprentice became.

But Regina's always been too powerful for her own good; she's managed to pull off in minutes stunts that it took Rumplestiltskin days of experimentation to perform. Much of her success can be credited to her teacher, of course, but a great deal of it is due to her decision early on to specialize. Certain functions and methods, she's never bothered to learn, and her motto, when it came to the laws of magic, has always been "_I'm_ the law."

"The curse is going to be stronger than ever. Don't you understand? I won."

His mild response infuriates her. Later, when she reflects upon his lack of reaction, she'll realize it should have clued her in to the fact that he knows there's nothing she can do to salvage her curse, because there's nothing she can do to break the bonds Emma has formed here. The sheriff's abandonment of Storybrooke will be short-lived: she loves too many too well, and she'll fight for them. As an ambulance siren slices through the peaceful afternoon, a savior is born.

Rumplestiltskin sets Charming's sword onto the top of the counter and flips his sign to "open."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

He makes a cup of chamomile and forces himself to pick up his pen to write the steps out. He can't begin to count the number of times he's done this since the night he screamed at the Reul Ghorm and dragged from her the single word that thereafter controlled his thoughts, his actions and his dreams: curse. How perverse that his only source of hope was a curse, but, he supposes, anything to do with the Dark One must be perverse.

So as he waits behind his counter, his hand trembling, he writes out the steps for the thousandth time. There's no need, of course; every breath he's taken in three centuries has carved the steps into his bones. But he can't afford for nervousness to lead to haste; he must trust the plan to which he's sworn a blood oath of allegiance. It will work. He's Seen enough of the pieces of the future to have faith in the plan: the mother's kiss, the airplane, the return of his magic. Tonight a woman in red leather will slay a dragon with her father's sword, the True Love bottled for a rainy day will be freed, a town will awaken, Belle will love him again and Rumplestiltskin–and who knows who else, for this has never ever been done before–will inhale magic, exhale power.

But for now he drinks tea, writes out the steps and tries not to tremble as three hundred years' labor comes to fruition in one night.

He dreamt of her last night. Not Belinda but Belle, and not in their friendly kitchen but in the Great Hall. She stood over him, he shrinking in his oversized chair and trying to placate her with a weak smile. But she crossed her arms and smirked his trademark smirk, and speaking in a perfect imitation of his imp voice, she pronounced him a liar. "'I will love nothing else.' But you broke that vow too, didn't you?" Then she unfolded her arms and smiled her Belle smile. "And I'm glad, because I love you, too. And Bae will be glad. Loving me doesn't make you disloyal to Bae. It makes your love for him more powerful."

He blinks the dream memory away and focuses on his list. His pen, which apparently has a will of its own, has written, "7. Drop vial into waters of Lake Nostros. 8. Use power of love to locate Bae."

He scratches out "love" and writes in "magic," as Step 8 is supposed to read. He finishes the list quickly, sips tea and tries to focus. The process, the process, it will work, one step at a–

Except for the first time ever, he's thinking about reordering the steps. If Emma breaks the curse before Rumple's finished bringing magic to the world, Belle and Dove are going to have a hell of a lot of convoluted emotions and thoughts to deal with all at once, and no one to navigate them through it. They're strong, they will recover, but there's a little one who's not so strong who must be protected against the violence of the stress that her mother will experience as her psyche splits in two.

_My fault_, Gold's pen writes. _I am her father_.

The lawyer in him goes all legalistic for a moment: _Stepfather_ _is_ _all_ _you_ _can_ _ever_ _be_ _to_ _that_ _child_, _and_ _you're_ _not_ _even_ _that_ _yet_. _You_ _have_ _no_ _rights_ _or_ _responsibilities_ _to_ _her_.

The man in him answers: _Bullshit_.

If there is any sliver of stubbornness remaining in him, pushing him to stick to the plan, it's obliterated when his service bell tinkles and the Evil Queen and the savior storm through his door, for the moment, warriors united; for the moment, no longer playing their prescribed roles but rather acting from the deepest part of the heart. Parents who will do anything to save their child.

Damn it, isn't that what brought him to this place, too? As the warrior-mothers storm his glass barricade, his left hand trembles and his right draws a slash across the list. "Gold, you have to help us," the savior is saying as Rumple writes across the slash one word representing the step that will come next in his plan: ADELENA.

"I'll tell you how to save your boy." His mouth has gone dry: the truth drags across his tongue, but at least it comes. "If you will help me save mine."

Regina has already begun formulating her arguments and accusations and they spill from her like black ink spilled across a pristine page, but Emma is listening. Emma flattens her hands on the counter (one hand on either side of the case holding her father's sword, as she will soon be startled to learn) and leans in. Fury flames in her eyes, her thought obvious: are you so low as to put a price on a child's life? But then something in his tone or his eyes connects with her, desperate parent to desperate parent, and for a moment she's gobsmacked, but she leans on the fortitude that this world has forced her to develop, and she extends her open hand. "Deal."

He shakes her hand. For the moment, the case holding her father's sword will remain closed. "This is how you will break both curses." His glance flickers to Regina, but a small nod from her assures him she is still more mother than queen. There is shame in the slump of her shoulders, but no regret, and he gives her a small nod back. "For the sake of our children."

"For Henry," Regina agrees, then makes a space in this new vow for her former master to add a name. "And for. . . ."

"For Baelfire. And for Adelena."

The women exchange a surprised glance. Emma then peers at Gold. "Two–?" She gives her head a shake to remind herself to focus on the urgent task at hand. "We'll swap baby photos later. How do we wake Henry?"

He gives her a small smile of pride. Someday he'll tell her how much like her father she is in her singlemindedness. Someday he may even tell her son a few stories about a matchmaking imp without whom there might have been no Emma and Henry. But she's right; it's time now to get to business.

And then from the corner of his eye he catches a movement from Regina. The queen takes a step back, lowering her widened eyes to her hands, which she abruptly rubs together. He knows this gesture: he saw it several times during the early months of her training, when she'd done something cruel, something she regretted. Her Lady Macbeth gesture.

"Regina?" he prompts.

His voice compels her to look up at him. "I'm sorry," she says, but before she can explain why, the queen in her emerges. "Proceed, Mr. Gold. How do we break the curse?"

He frowns a little; she's up to something, but she'll tell him about it eventually. She always does. He gives his attention back to Emma. This is not how it's supposed to go; there's no step in his three-hundred-year-old plan that says, "Be open and honest with the savior." So he hesitates, until in the back of his mind he hears her father's voice: "I have done all that you have asked of me" and he realizes that Emma will, too.

The last person he trusted, as he is now trusting Emma, was the caretaker of his estate.

Rumplestiltskin clasps Emma's hand, sharing the strength of his experience, sharing the strength of her innocence. "No greater power exists, Ms. Swan, than True Love. With it your father and mother have defeated every spell that has been thrown at them. With it you will break the strongest curse that has ever been created. Go to your son and wake him–"

Emma's read the Snow White story. She finishes the sentence: "With a kiss."

* * *

><p>His Caddy is right behind Regina's Mercedes as it runs a red light and speeds through the school zone. He follows suit: if the mayor and the sheriff don't have to follow traffic laws, why should an ordinary citizen? But at Blackbird Lane they part company, the Mercedes making a left toward the hospital; Gold proceeds straight ahead on Moncton until he's at the edge of town, and then he takes an unnamed asphalt road south, past some empty fields, until he comes upon a ranch house that sits alone on a hill. The garage door is up: Dove's Yukon sits inside, beside Belinda's Honda. From a tool shed in the backyard Gold hears hammering; at the house, the outer door is open, and through the closed screen door he hears Tchaikovsky's "Winter Dreams."<p>

Hovering above the steel mailbox that sits on a post at the end of the driveway is a white wooden dove on the wing; on the box itself is painted in bright blue "The Doves."

He suddenly realizes he has no idea what to tell them. This spontaneity isn't like him: when it comes to preparedness, the Boy Scouts have nothing on Rumplestiltskin. He stands on their porch, staring at the "Welcome" mat and searching for an opening line, an excuse for coming here, where he's never been.

The floorboards squeak. He looks up to her puzzled half-smile. They just stand there, staring through the mesh, until something shifts in her gaze: he thinks it's a_ knowing_ that has arisen in her eyes, and he could swear it's Rumplestiltskin the Sorcerer she's seeing, not Gold, and his body straightens and his cane clatters to the porch. He doesn't seem to need it any more.

She flings the screen door out of her way and flies into his arms. Her hands press against his shoulder blades, pushing him tight against her; her face presses against his jacket and he suddenly resents Armani and all the other designers of men's business fashions, because he can't feel her through three layers of cloth. Nor, with her face tucked into his shoulder, can he see her expression. He's half-crazy to know if she remembers, but he won't scare her by asking. With one arm around her waist and one hand stroking her hair, he leaves it to his touch to say what he can't conjure words for. She's breathing heavily, her body rising and falling beneath his hand.

They clutch each other, deaf to the hammering in the tool shed, deaf to the frantic distant barking of a dog, deaf to the flurry of beating wings as a flock of robins streaks across the sky. He can hear nothing of the commotion around him, but he can hear her breathe.

And then everything stops.

She raises her face as a rainbow passes over it, bars of yellow and orange and violet and green light, and he cups her face, and his thumb tingles where he touches her cheek. His entire hand tingles, his body and her body begin to shudder, the floorboards beneath his Italian shoes shake, and she pulls away, though she takes both his hands in hers. "Rumple, what's happening? Rumple?"

He searches her face. "Belle, do you know me? Do you remember me?"

The rainbow fades, the floorboards and their bodies steady, and after some hesitation the gentle spring breeze resumes and the robins settle in trees, singing about the strange storm they've just experienced.

"Of course I—" She suddenly drops her face into her hands. "My head hurts. Gods, I—" Her eyes search the environment frantically and she hisses at him. "Shh! Do you hear them? They're coming."

"Who, sweetheart? Who's coming?" He slides his hands along her arms comfortingly.

"She wants me to tell her your secrets, but I'll never tell," Belle shakes her head wildly. "She wants to bring you to your knees, she says. She won't kill you; you're still useful to her, but she wants you on your knees to her. She threw me against the wall with her magic. She chained me to the wall. No food, no water, she told them, but one of them helped me anyway."

"She? Do you mean Regina?" He touches her cheek but she won't look at him.

"The ogres did this. What's left for us to take back to their families? Arms and legs strewn everywhere. An entire regiment slaughtered in less than two hours."

"Belle, Belle, come back to me," he pleads. "That's the past. Don't stay there."

"He's a very nice man, Daddy. Yes, he works for Gold, but he's a. . ." her voice trails off. She licks her lips uncertainly. "He takes good care of me. Hello, Mayor Mills. Yes, it's a lovely day. Yes, we're very lucky to live here."

He takes her face in his hands and forces her to look at him. "Belle, breathe. Slowly. Focus on your breath. Breathe, sweetheart. For the baby, Belle. Come back to me."

"The baby." She nods and gulps for air.

"The baby." He mimics the breathing pattern he wants her to take. "Breathe. We're here, in Storybrooke. We're safe."

She leans against his shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall against her head, and gradually she gains control of her breathing. After a long moment she shifts to stand on her own, and then she peers at him.

"Belle, do you remember me?" He chokes on the words.

She searches his eyes. Suddenly her hands sink into his hair, drag his head down, and she presses her mouth against his. She's come back to him; he knows it when she draws back from the kiss.

"This," she murmurs. "This is real."

Their smiles make promises of a future of more. Their smiles make promises of a future together.

"Rumple, I remember," she laughs breathlessly. "You and me and a chipped cup, and a deal we made."

"It's forever, darling," he reminds her, and she rests her hands on his chest. He sets his hands on hers, and as his right hand brushes against the ring finger of her left hand, they stop smiling. They stop smiling but their fingers thread together and they don't let go, and the light in their eyes doesn't extinguish.

"After all we've been through, I won't be separated from you again, not even for a day," Belle insists.

"I won't let go," he assures her, planting kisses on the palms of her hands. "Never again."

"I don't want to hurt him. He's been very good to me."

"He's my friend." There's no way the three—no, the four—of them will get out of this without a hell of a lot of pain.

Gold suddenly needs her closer. With a rumble in his throat, he yanks her back into his embrace and brings his mouth to hers. Just before their lips meet, he moans, "I've missed you so much, Belle. I've needed you, since that day you fell into my arms, and I've loved you, ever since the day you asked to know me."

Words rush out of her. "All this time, I thought I was feeling things I shouldn't, wanting to be with you. I felt so guilty, but I couldn't stop myself; I only felt right when we were together. It was so confusing. When I went home to Jo, I felt like I was cheating on you."

"We'll sort it out, the life you lived here, from the life in the Enchanted Forest. We'll be all right. I'll explain it all." Explain and ask forgiveness, because even after he'd come to know her, even after he'd fallen in love with her the first time, he'd continued to build the curse—though he honestly can't say whether, if he'd known she was alive and in Regina's possession, he would have gone through with it. He's asked himself that question a hundred times, and most of the time, the answer has been an image of himself tearing down the Spiral Palace with his bare hands, and once he'd freed Belle, he'd have set those hands to work on her captor's throat.

Belle stirs in his arms, putting out the fire for revenge and igniting in his belly a fire of a different sort. Screw revenge. He has the savior's promise of help, so soon he will have Bae; and right here, right now and forever, he has Belle. Every cell in his body and hers sings to him that assurance, but Malcolm's castoff and Milah's cuckold and Hordor's bootlicker and the butt of Hook's joke still live in corners of his mind, so he needs to hear Belle say the words aloud. "But Belle—"

She nods furiously. "Yes. Yes, I love you."

He breathes her name in relief. "Belle." He can't wait any longer for another kiss.

"Lady Belle? Master Rumplestiltskin?"

Gold lifts his head toward the voice. "Josiah?" The master sorcerer reddens.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**A/N. It's time to crank the feels up a notch. This chapter's for you, Grace, because you guessed this plot point ages ago!**

* * *

><p>Josiah is standing on <em>his<em> flower-lined sidewalk that leads up to _his_ home. He's staring, then glaring at _his_ wife and _his_ employer, who've been snuggling and snogging on _his_ porch. He lowers his head into his hands, rubbing at his forehead furiously as though trying to rub out a headache, and he curses. His Belinda releases Gold and starts down the steps, calling to him, "Jo? Are you hurting?" At the foot of the porch stairs, she pauses. "It hurt me too—a blinding pain behind my eyes—but it'll go away. It'll last only a few minutes."

"It's your memory awakening, from a curse that Regina cast," Gold explains. "The curse gave you false memories and now the real ones are returning. Overwhelming and confusing, but it'll settle down. We should go inside and sit down, rest—"

In two bounds Josiah is on the porch and his left hand, as big as Gold's head, is wrapped around his boss' throat. He starts to squeeze and lift as Belinda spins, runs up the steps and grabs his arm, trying to pry his hand away. "What are you doing? What are you doing, Jo?" she cries at the same time Josiah thrusts his face into Gold's and demands to know, "What the hell do you mean by kissing my wife, Gold?"

Gold sputters, gasps for air, unable to breathe, let alone answer. Belinda does the answering for him, but Josiah ignores her. "Look at me, Jo! I'm not your wife! I'm not Belinda. You said it yourself a minute ago: I'm Lady Belle. Remember? Try to remember, Jo. Avonlea. The Second Ogres War. My father, Lord Maurice, sent you with a message strapped to your leg. Our army had fallen. Our lands were under ogre domination. You flew across the Lower Highlands, a hundred miles, across battlefields and burning fields, to carry my papa's plea to Rumplestiltskin."

Josiah's grip loosens but he doesn't release Gold's throat. He's still staring into his boss' eyes, and with every word of Belinda's tale, his expression changes.

"When you reached the Dark Mountains, you flew into a storm, fierce wind and rain," Gold picks up the story. His voice is hoarse. "But you kept going, because Lady Belle needed you to. Because you belonged to her and she loved you. When you reached the Dark Castle, you could find no way in. You were exhausted, half-drowned. You saw a single light burning in a room in the top of the East Tower. With the last of your strength you flew to the window of that room and threw yourself against it."

"To break it." Josiah releases Gold now. His arms dangle uselessly at his sides as his sight draws inside himself. "I couldn't."

"The castle opened the window for you, let you in."

Josiah cocks his head and blinks at Gold. "You picked me up. In your hands. I fit in your hands. How?"

"You were a bird." Gold lets the information sink in. If certain of Josiah's memories are still submerged, this information will be news: shocking, perhaps unbelievable, news.

Josiah raises his chin indignantly. "A _dove_. Not just a bird: a dove."

Gold smiles. "Indeed."

"You read the message. My job was done." Josiah sighs and his entire body slumps, supported by a porch column. "Lady Belle would be safe. I could rest. But before you went to her, you wrapped me in a cloth and set me in an open drawer."

"And when he came back from Avonlea, he brought me, and the war was over." Belle touches his elbow lightly, encouragingly.

"And for a long time, we were safe and happy." Josiah smiles at her, then blushes. "And then she came, in answer to my call, and we built a nest in Rumplestiltskin's grove."

Belle continues to touch his elbow, but she links her arm in Gold's. "And you and she came to visit the castle every morning and sing for us. We would come to the window of the Great Hall and open it, and you and she would perch on the sill and sing."

"Your music gave me an excuse to stand close to Belle," Gold raises her hand to his lips to kiss.

"And to show his gentler side. I remember walking in on him one morning, feeding a dove from the palm of his hand. I knew then," she dimples at her True Love, "you couldn't be a monster."

His eyebrows shoot up. "I don't remember that."

"I didn't let you see me. I slipped my shoes off so you wouldn't hear me and hid behind the Golden Fleece so you wouldn't see me."

"Ah. That must've been the morning my breakfast was served cold."

She gives his arm a playful slap. "But you didn't complain. You never did. Lumpy oatmeal, burnt toast, watery stew, but you never complained."

"You were learning, sweetheart, and so was I." He strokes her cheek with a finger. "So much I needed to learn, and still do."

"Mr. G—Master Rumplestiltskin?" Josiah begins.

"I'd prefer to be called by my true name now," Gold advises him. "It's been a long time. Do you remember yours?"

"Courage. You called me Courage then. And my mate was Faith." He glances hastily at Belle. "I'm sorry." He's fumbling to explain why he's sorry, but he doesn't quite understand; their situation now is utter chaos. The best he can do is apologize again.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Belle assures him. "You were good to me. We weren't with the ones we were meant to love, but we were kind to each other." She frowns at Gold. "Why? What happened to us, Rumple?"

"It's a long story that begins and, gods help me, ends with Baelfire. I'll explain it all, and you're both going to want to alternately slap me and slap Regina at various points, but I hope—I trust—you'll forgive me, or at least understand, when you know the why of it." Suddenly his ankle throbs, and he leans on Belle as he bends to collect his cane, but Josiah beats him to it.

"Here, Mr.—Master Rumplestiltskin." Dove opens the screen door. "Let's get you two off your feet. We'll go into the kitchen and I'll make some tea."

But before they can cross the threshold, Belle's eyes widen and she doubles over, clutching her belly with a gasp. Josiah slides his arm around her shoulders to steady her. "What's wrong, Bindy? Do you need a doctor?"

Belle removes her hand from her belly as she straightens. "Oh my gods."

The three of them stare at her belly. With dread rising in his throat, Gold looks for blood; it's a miscarriage, he's certain of it. But he sees no blood on her stretchy-paneled jeans or her frilly white top. The clothes hang from her frame, clean and loose—the clothes hang from her frame. . . .

"Oh my gods, oh my gods," she's moaning, and her fake husband holds her, and he catches on: "Oh, gods, milady! We'll get you to the hospital." He scoops her easily into his arms and gallops to the driveway.

"The Caddy!" Gold barks, limping along behind. "Put her in the back."

Dove nods: the Caddy's blocking the garage; they couldn't get the Yukon out. Besides, the Caddy's ride will be smoother. As Gold yanks the back door open and Dove settles Belle into the backseat, she stops moaning. Dove makes his voice soothing. "We'll get you to the hospital fast. Don't worry; it's going to be all right." He goes around to the other side of the car, climbs into the back and draws her against him. "Are you in pain, milady?"

She shakes her head, closing her eyes as she slumps against Dove. Her hands tighten around her flat belly.

Gold is the last one to get it. It smacks him upside the head as he slides behind the steering wheel.

"Mr. G.? Can you drive? Mr. G.?"

Gold raises his head and thrusts the key into the ignition.

* * *

><p>The psyche is as powerful as any instrument of magic, he thinks as he stands in the lime-green waiting room. And the emotions cast spells, unavoidable, inescapable; among the most powerful of these is denial. He'd stood on that porch, holding Belle, a full ten minutes, but during that time he never noticed what had happened to her body.<p>

On the Naugahyde couch, Dove is breathing heavily, his elbows on his knees. On the coffee table before him is a Styrofoam cup of now cold coffee. Gold had bought it from the vending machine—a memory of Ms. Swan standing before that machine popped into his head as he dropped the quarters in the slot. He'll be hearing from her tonight; she promised it. He raises his face toward the ceiling: she's up there right now, in the children's ward. Henry's fully recovered, of course: he only needed to be awakened. The sleeping curse wouldn't have damaged his body, but it will have lingering effects that either Regina or Gold will need to help him cope with. But though the boy is all right, Whale won't have allowed him to be taken home yet. It's a doctor thing. No matter which set of memories he's operating from, Frankenwhale knows beans about magic.

The hospital's in a state of chaos, and not just because it has two emergency cases that science can't explain. Once the curse broke, the staff had to deal with their own symptoms, the most lasting of which are the emotional ones as they try to understand why they have memories of two distinct identities and two separate lives now occupying their heads. If they haven't already, they'll soon be rushing out into the streets to search for lost loved ones. When Dove carried Belle in, Gold had to bellow for assistance and bang his cane on the reception desk. A Candy Striper finally appeared and, though she apologized for not knowing what she was doing—she couldn't find a nurse or orderly anywhere—she shouted into an intercom, then grabbed a folded wheelchair, popped it open and held it steady as Dove eased Belle into it. With the men trailing, she wheeled Belle into an examining room, then ran back out again to find a doctor.

Gold and Dove had helped Belle onto the examining table, then waited silently, one on each side, each holding one of her hands.

"It's going to be all right," Gold assured her. He knew it, and he knew why he knew, and it made him feel ashamed.

"Are you in pain?" Dove returned to his earlier question.

"No." Belle shifted on the table. She couldn't set her feet down anywhere, and the edge of the table cut off the circulation in her thighs. "No pain. I don't feel anything." Her hands ran up and down her flat belly and she looked from Dove to Gold, her eyes pleading. "I don't feel _anything_." She reached out to Gold as a sob bubbled up from her chest. When his arms encircled her and drew her in, she gave in to her grief.

Flushed, the Candy Striper appeared then in the doorway, triumphant with Doc the dwarf beside her. Gold started to protest, but in Storybrooke Doc Seveigny was the one and only OB/GYN, and Storybrooke women swore by him; he'd been treating Belle all along. He gave Gold a confused look, then an annoyed one, but said nothing about the fact that the Dark One was holding another man's wife. "All right, gentlemen, it's time for you to step out. Ms. Martinez?"

The Candy Striper snapped to attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Show them to the waiting room, please. And Ms. Martinez? Good job."

The door closed in the men's faces.

And so they're waiting as phones ring and people in white run around. Gold watches them run. Briefly, he thinks he should help them: he could explain what's happened, assure them that they will find their families and friends; informing them would be the responsible, humane thing to do. If the mayor were anyone else but the sorceress who cast the curse, he would start by debriefing her, then they'd gather the city council and decide how best to disseminate the news. But the mayor being who she is and Gold being who he is, that's not going to happen.

As the Dark One, he's never experienced a sense of civil duty.

So Gold paces from one end of the waiting room to the other, and Dove slumps on the Naugahyde couch and they wait.

* * *

><p>Ms. Martinez appears in the hallway. Gold notices for the first time she's just a kid, and she has a case of acne that he can cure for her with a wave of his hand, when he brings magic to Storybrooke. He owes her that, and Rumplestiltskin pays his debts. "Uhm, Mr. uhm, you can come in, Doc says." Both men look at her expectantly. "She asked for both of you, and Doc said yes." As the men follow her down the hall, she grins. "Doc said it was highly unusual for a woman to want her boss in the examining room, but Ms. Dove insisted—uh, Lady Belle."<p>

As Dove opens the door to the examining room, Ms. Martinez sets a hand on Gold's arm. "We never met, but—I just wanted to say thanks to you and Lady Belle. See, my papa was a farmer in Avonlea. The ogres were just four miles from our farm when—" she wiggles her fingers. "Poof. No more ogres."

Gold fumbles with the handle of his cane so he won't have to meet her gaze. "It's Lady Belle who deserves your thanks. I just fulfilled my end of a deal."

"Yeah, we heard." She squeezes his elbow. "Thanks." She glances meaningfully toward the examining room. "I hope things work out okay for you two."

She's probably the only Storybrooker who does. "Ms. Martinez. . . you'll find your mama working at the cannery and your papa is the wine steward at La Tandoor."

She gives a teenage squeal and kisses his cheek. "Thanks, Mr. Gold!"

From a little roller stool parked beside Belle, Doc squints at Gold as he enters. Gold takes a position standing with his back at the closed door, facing Belle, who's sitting now on a straight-backed chair, with Dove standing behind her. But Belle holds her hands out to Gold, so, defying Doc's scowl, he goes to her side. She's pale and trembling, and as soon as he touches her she sinks into his arms and cries silently into his jacket.

Doc's expression softens as he stands up. "It's Archie she needs now, not me."

Gold surmises, "She's in good health, then?"

Doc nods. "Good health. But, ah," he licks his lips and shakes his head.

Dove blurts, "The baby? What about the baby?"

And as Belle begins to sob, Doc shakes his head again. "There is no baby."

"I don't understand."

"Mr. Dove, there never was a baby."

Gold presses Belle's head against his chest and strokes her hair.

"I don't get it. What happened?" Dove rubs his bald head nervously. "We were going to have a baby in less than four months. Was it a miscarriage?"

Doc lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "There never was a baby. Belle wasn't pregnant."

Gold answers from deep in his chest. "There was a curse."

"We—the baby. . . was a lie?" Dove sinks down on Doc's roller chair.

"I'll give you some privacy. Take all the time you need." His hand on the doorknob, Doc advises, "Take her home, Mr. Gold. I'll ask Archie to visit her as soon as he can. What she needs now is time, rest. . . love." He leaves an unspoken question hanging in the air.

Gold nods. "I can provide all of that."

"You too," Doc adds. "You and Mr. Dove should talk to Archie too. In cases of miscarriage, the father's welfare is often overlooked." He opens the door. "And though technically it's not a miscarriage, it sure the hell feels like one." He leaves them alone.

Belle raises her face from Gold's chest just long enough to hold a hand out to Dove. After some hesitation, he clambers to his feet, the little stool skidding away. He comes to her side and holds her outstretched hand. She pulls her hand in, pulling him in too, and as he holds her hand and she cries against Gold's chest, the handyman drops his free hand onto Gold's shoulder.

Gold hears a second voice sobbing. He's not sure whose it is.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

They take Belle home, not to the ranch house, where maternity clothes hang in the closet and a nursery is under construction, and where fake family photos hang on the walls, but to the pink house. It's her preference; she states it without hesitation when Gold asks where she would like to go, and neither man challenges her. Dove says nothing when Belle walks directly through the foyer to the kitchen, fills the teakettle, gathers cups and milk and sugar, as comfortable in the space as if she lives here. She sits down at the kitchen table, resting her forehead on her arms.

"Maybe I should—" Dove hovers awkwardly in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.

"Please, sit down," Gold says, opening the refrigerator. "I'm going to prepare supper."

Dove nods and seats himself across from Belle. He looks exhausted, physically and emotionally, and confused; he needs a quiet space too. It's too much at once, gaining a second complete identity and losing a baby all in one stroke.

When the kettle whistles, Belle doesn't seem to hear it; Gold prepares the tea. As he sets a cup before her, the grandfather clock in the dining room chimes six times.

The clock reminds him of his grand plan. By now he expected to have released the vial into the well. His fingers twitch, anticipating the surge of magic that will not come tonight. There are more urgent matters, he thinks, and then the darkness in him snorts: _Like drinking tea with your servants?_

The father in him snaps a reply: _Like mourning the loss of a child_.

The magic will wait until tomorrow; the search for Baelfire, another few days. Baelfire would understand.

Silently Gold moves about his kitchen, heating soup and slicing bread that Belinda baked just a few days ago, adding it to a platter with cheese and fruit. He grips Belle's shoulder, sending her some of his strength. "Please, eat something, Belle." She stares into her teacup, not budging, so he lays out some bread and cheese for her and gives Dove an encouraging nod.

Dove gets the message: he fills a plate for himself and begins to eat, though his motions are all automatic. Belle rouses, watching him, and when Gold sets a bowl of soup before her she picks up her spoon. Gold smiles encouragingly. "Just a little would help, sweetheart."

She swallows a few spoonfuls.

"Keep her eating," Gold says quietly, and Dove nods. As Gold climbs the stairs, his ankle squeals for all the pressure he's put on it today. After he's found Bae, he'll fix his ancient injury, but not until then: with each step he takes, the pain reminds him that the purpose of his journey is, and always has been, to get home to Bae.

He's come to prepare a room for Belle to sleep in. He selects the bedroom farthest from the nursery, and after he's covered the bed with fresh linen, he moves on to the nursery and locks its door, slipping the key into his jacket. If Belle should get up in the night, he doesn't want her wandering into the room that he prepared for Adelena. When he locks the door, he doesn't look inside.

Coming downstairs, he hears Dove talking, yammering nervously about a '68 Corvette that a buddy's restoring. He ladles out a bowl of soup for himself and tries to join in: if he and Dove fill the silence, perhaps their chatter will lift Belle, enough that she will eat, and perhaps enough that she can rest tonight.

Gold knows nothing about Corvettes, or about 1968, for that matter. But he feigns an interest, asks questions, and his hope rises when Belle's spoon clatters into an empty bowl and she reaches for a slice of melon.

She's trying too, and Gold blesses her for it. "Perhaps we could watch _The Tempest _tonight?" she suggests.

Gold stiffens in his chair, but keeps smiling. The ending of _The Tempest_ disturbs him: the powerful mage Prospero forgives his enemies, sends his only child off to a new life and then surrenders his magic before asking forgiveness for his own crimes. "And my ending is despair/Unless I be relieved by prayer." Gold's not sure he can handle that tonight, but he would deny Belle nothing; whatever will bring her small comfort, he will bear. "Let's do that," he says, gathering up the dishes.

It's only a little awkward, retiring to the living room with his True Love and her husband: when Belle curls up on the couch, instead of sitting beside her, Dove takes the recliner and Gold takes the rocking chair, each man avoiding anything that could anger the other. This is no time for territory disputes. If they can stay civil, the three of them might just be able to come out of this okay; certainly, much better off than the Nolans and Mary-Margaret have been, with Regina's interference.

Dove falls asleep during Act I. His head lolls before finally settling on his shoulder, and his snores rival the storms that Prospero conjures. Gold and Belle share a smile. "He does that every night," Belle says. "Falls asleep after supper, the remote in his hand." They let him snooze as they watch the play. When it's finished, Gold turns off the television and Belle leans over, giving Dove a shake. "Jo, wake up." There's a fond familiarity in her expression that unsettles Gold.

Dove snuffles, rubs his nose and hauls himself upright in the chair. "Huh?"

"You fell asleep, Jo," Belle explains.

"Like always," Dove admits. "Sorry, Bin." He grins over at Gold. "Real comfortable chair, Mr. G."

"It is," Gold confirms. "I fall asleep in it too."

"Guess I'd better be going." Dove stands. "If I could borrow your car?"

"Of course." Gold hands him the key. "See you at the shop at nine, Josiah?"

Relief washes over Dove's face, and Gold realizes this is what they all need right now: normalcy, or at least an attempt at it. "Sounds good. Yeah. We have that shipment from the auction house coming in." He shakes Gold's hand. "See you in the morning, Mr. G."

"See you in the morning," Gold agrees.

Dove turns to Belle. "I'll bring by a change of clothes for you around eight-thirty, okay?" He touches her elbow awkwardly. "Good night, Belle."

She throws her arms around his neck—he has to stoop and she has to rise on tiptoe—and kisses his cheek. "Goodnight, Jo. Thank you. For everything."

He smiles down at her. "Thanks, Bin. For everything." Dove pats her cheek fondly before leaving.

Through the open door she waves and watches him drive away. Gold gives her her privacy, retreating to the kitchen to fill the dishwasher. It's several minutes before she wanders into the kitchen and silently wipes the crumbs from the table. He casts worried glances at her, but her back remains turned to him.

Gold dries his hands on a towel. He begins tentatively, "He's a good man."

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

When she turns, she's red-faced. "I'm sorry, Rumple."

"Why?" In surprise he touches her shoulder. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"It's like I was unfaithful to you."

"You were Belinda then, not Belle, and for most of those years, I wasn't Rumple. Until a year ago, you were just my housekeeper and he was my handyman and my friend. When I thought of you with him, I felt envy, not jealousy."

"Envy?"

"Because you had a happy marriage. Your happiness stood out all the more because no one else in Storybrooke had that, not even the richest man in town. It was as Regina intended, that I would envy the people who worked for me." He pauses. "You were happy with Josiah, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad."

"You said, 'Until a year ago.'"

"The curse broke for me the day Ms. Swan came to town. It was. . . written into the curse that way, so I could make preparations. I'll tell you the whole story, but not tonight."

"No, I don't think I could, tonight."

"What would help you right now, Belle?"

It's the best question he could have asked her; she rewards him with a relieved smile. "I'm not up to talking. Later, but not now. Would you just sit with me?" She holds out a hand in invitation, and when he takes it, she leads him to the couch, where she snuggles against him and he slides a comforting arm around her shoulders, stroking her hair. They sit, listening to the grandfather clock tick, watching the sun sink and the streetlights come on. She clutches his free hand, but eventually her hold on him loosens and her breathing evens. She isn't sleeping; he can tell from the depth of her breathing; but she is finding a peaceful moment in time to rest in.

By her request, he sleeps beside her that night; she asks for his bed rather than the guest room he prepared for her. She's wearing a pinned-up pair of his pajamas, and when he sinks into the bed beside her, she draws his arm around her hip and rests her head on his shoulder. In the safety of the darkness, she asks, "What happens next?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I want to find my son. When you feel ready to travel. . . .?"

"I'd like that." She falls silent a while, and he's content just listening to her breathe. Then she thinks of another question—his Belle, always with another question. "And the others? Ruby, David, Mary Margaret, Leroy? What happens to them?"

"They will return to their loved ones. It may be complicated, as it will be for us, but the families will sort themselves out. Archie will be needed more than ever, I imagine."

"Will they go back? To the Enchanted Forest, I mean."

"That would require magic."

There's a note of disappointment in her "oh." It encourages him: perhaps she won't be completely adverse to his bringing magic to this land. But he won't raise that subject tonight.

"Maybe they won't want to go back," she speculates. "I mean, who wouldn't choose central heating and indoor plumbing and refrigerators?"

"And cars and airplanes and computers and TVs."

"And stereos and vacuum cleaners and hair dryers and washing machines and electric stoves," she giggles, snuggling closer to him.

"I take it that, given a choice, you'd choose this world."

"Hands down." She sighs. "But that's one vote out of three."

"Three?"

"You and Baelfire might want to go back."

"And you'd go—"

"Where you go."

"Ah, Belle." His throat tightens, as does his hold on her hip. He tries to think of some elegant way to express his gratitude, but emotion chokes him, so he merely kisses the top of her head.

"We're going to be okay, aren't we?" she asks. "You and me and Bae and Jo."

"We'll work it out, I promise," he assures her. "We have too much going for us, to lose it to anger or jealousy."

"Rumple?" She raises her head; her eyes shimmer in the dark.

"Sweetheart?"

"The yellow bedroom. . . you would've welcomed the baby, wouldn't you?"

"I would have loved her."

"You would've been a great stepdad."

"We would have made it work," he repeats. "You and me and Josiah. We could have. All of us, for the baby's sake. For our own sake, to get to raise her and love her."

"Would Bae have liked having a sister?"

"I'm sure he would've."

"Rumple?"

"Yes, love?"

"You seem awfully sure it would have been a girl."

"Just a hunch," he admits. "I can't see the future any more."

"Maybe that's best." She rests her head against his chest again. "Life should be layered."

"A mystery to be—" but his voice catches and he can't complete the sentence. Her hand presses against his cheek and her thumb brushes away wetness there. Her own shoulders start to shake and for both of them, the dam bursts.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The boards creak as, barefoot, he eases down the stairs, determined not to wake Belle. How quickly their bodies, if not their minds, have fallen back into old patterns: he an early riser, she a late sleeper. He realizes as the railing rasps against its bolts when he clutches it that he never noticed before how dried-out and achy this old house is (yet not half as old as he is). But now that she's here, the house will rejuvenate, as will he.

He decides to make pancakes.

Funny, a hundred minute details about her have sprung to mind, just as though the thirty-two years between their parting in the Enchanted Forest and yesterday's curse breaking had shriveled up and blown away like dry winter leaves in a spring wind, leaving fresh green memories. She likes pancakes drizzled with honey. She's muddle-headed when she first wakes up. She always blushes when he performs small acts of kindness for her, as though she somehow thinks she doesn't deserve them.

He doesn't like pancakes.

He makes pancakes for her.

When breakfast is ready, he arranges it on a tray and carries it upstairs. It takes three trips because, with only one hand free to carry the tray, he has to keep the load light. He doesn't mind. He grins like a schoolboy on the first day of his first crush. He's bringing her sweetness on a plate and sunshine in a glass. But really, he's bringing her his unbridled heart.

He wakes her in the way he's wanted to, for so many years: he opens the drapes to allow sunlight in, as she once did for him, and then he brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her cheek. Muddle-headed, she blinks, focuses, props herself up and frowns as she looks around–this room is not what she's expecting; it's not hers, not yet, but it will be soon. He greets her and the frown vanishes, and when she sees his offering, she smiles.

And blushes.

"You cooked for me?" She runs her hands through her hair, pushing it back, and arranging pillows behind her back, she sits up fully. "Pancakes?"

He balances the tray on her lap, then drags an armchair close to the bed so he can sit down. His ankle's complaining from all the stair climbing but he doesn't notice. What he does notice is the delight in her eyes as she picks up the little plastic bear and squeezes its belly, drizzling honey on her pancakes. "Thank you."

He waits quietly as she eats. He's never been much of a cook–in his spinner days, when cooking was a necessity, he had so little to work with; even salt was a precious commodity. In this world, he's has an embarrassing abundance of ingredients and implements, but no son or wife to cook for. Perhaps that will change in the not-too-distant future.

A smear of honey ends up in a lock of her hair and she laughs.

He'd give every object in his shop for the privilege of bringing her pancakes every morning.

"Wait for me," he urges. "I need to go into the shop this morning. I'm expecting a delivery." He doesn't mention that it's from Emma, not the antique auction. "But I'll make it a half-day."

"I should go ho–" she stops herself.

He feels the prick of panic, wondering how she intended to finish that sentence. "I've had much more time than you to adjust to–" he waves a hand around vaguely. "I won't rush you. If you want to get a place of your own. . . . If you want to go back to your father's house. . . .But I don't think you should go. . . back there, to Josiah's. . . . "

"I meant, to pick up my things. Not to stay." She reddens. "Last night, I just presumed–I didn't ask if it would be okay–if you wanted me here."

"You said last night that you never wanted us to be separated again. I realize, once things settle down and all the initial confusion of the curse breaking is over–." He's giving her a graceful way out, if she wants it. He's pretty sure, though, she won't. "I'm a better man than I was when we last lived together, but I'm still a bit of a bastard. Quite a bit of a bastard, actually."

"Don't lean on that like a crutch," she warns, "like you don't have a choice. " Belle rests her hand on the tray. "The man who made me pancakes–"

"Is the same man who made a curse that affected an entire town. And he'd do it again, if he had to, to find his son." He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "That ruthlessness will always be a part of me, but when you came into my life I started to want to reclaim the other half of myself, and I promise you, I'll keep trying." He ducks his head so she can't see his face. "It's too soon after the curse breaking and. . . the baby. . . to make plans. But for today, stay with me and let's do ordinary things and pretend everything is fine. We all need that today, I think."

She sets the tray on the nightstand. "Well, I can't go out until Jo brings me some clothes. Besides, I feel like doing some vacuuming this morning." There's fondness in her smile as she stands and looks around the bedroom of his old house. "It's been a while since I last cleaned this house, hasn't it? I kind of feel like I've neglected the old girl." She bends to press her lips to his cheek. "One day at a time, Rumple."

* * *

><p>When he brings the promised change of clothes, Josiah comes to the back door, as he always has. Gold notices he's brought only three or four days' worth of garments in a cardboard box: does he expect Belle will get disgusted by the end of the week and come home to the ranch house? But Belle notices something that tells a different story: puffiness and dark circles under Jo's eyes. She presses a cup of coffee into his hand and remarks, "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"<p>

"Don't worry about me," the handyman shrugs.

"I'm sorry," Belle says.

"I'll get used to it. It's still just kind of raw, you know? But there's a whole lot of other people in the same boat. On the courthouse lawn, there's a missing persons message board. People looking for their families. And, uh, on the streets you see cars and trucks filled with people's belongings." He shifts from foot to foot. "People moving out from the places they were living in, to move in with their rightful families." He clears his throat. "Guess we'll be pretty busy for a while, rewriting leases."

"My leases are airtight," Gold mutters. "With a substantial penalty for failure to pay rent."

"But we're not gonna hold them to it, are we, Mr. G.? I mean, besides how nasty that would be, it's gonna be hard to enforce, right? Considering the sheriff isn't likely to back you up. It could even be argued the leases aren't valid, since the tenants signed them with false names."

Belle is shooting Gold a glacial glare, so he capitulates. "I suppose in the long run it will even out, since there's nowhere in town they can move that I don't own. They'll just be moving from one of my properties to another."

"Rumple," Belle now smiles sweetly. "This is your chance to do a unique civic good."

"If you're going to suggest I waive rent–"

"I know better than to suggest that. But I'm betting you, with your tenant lists and your intact memories of the Enchanted Forest, could help reunite families."

"Hey, what a great idea!" Josiah brightens for the first time. "Give us something to do while we're waiting for the delivery."

"I was looking forward to a game of dominoes," Gold grumps, but Belle and Dove know they've won. He'll do it, not because it's right or because he wants to make families happy, but because it will make his old friend feel better. Besides, such a Boy Scout deed will surely ingratiate him to Queen Snow and Princess Emma, which just may save his sorry hide from Charming when the lot of them find out who created the curse.

The grandfather clock chimes nine times.

"Mr. Dove, you're late for work."

* * *

><p>As Dove rattles off the alphabetical list of tenants, Gold assigns the true names to those he knows. It's less than half: Regina wrote most of the Storybrooke part of the curse, feeding into it a lengthy list of her enemies and assigning them roles in her new kingdom. Rumplestiltskin didn't give a damn whom she chose to drag along: all he cared about was the destination and the savior waiting for her big moment. Had he known, however, that Belle was alive and that Regina would dangle her under his nose, he would've gotten a lot more involved in the planning of the guest list. A hell of a lot more involved.<p>

"Mr. G.?"

"Huh?"

"Michael Marine, owner of Marine Garage?"

"You mean, renter of Marine Garage. He's Finrod, an elf. His mate is Amarie; here, she's Ann Marie Rangel, an electrician."

Josiah writes a number beside Marine's name, then skims through the ledger to the "R's" and writes the same number beside Rangel. Flipping back to the "M's" he continues, "Marti Martin, sales clerk at the shoe store."

"Don't know him."

"It's a her."

"Oh. Still don't–wait. Cassie, the Old Lady Who Lived–"

Josiah chuckles: it's a heartening sound. "In a Shoe. So of course she works in the shoe store."

Gold clicks his tongue. "Regina's lack of imagination has always held her back. She could've been so much more than an Evil Queen if she'd had just a little creativity. Anyway, Ms. Martin is a widow. She has six kids–Josiah, this is going to take all day! Why don't we just let them find each other with no interference from us, eh? It'll give the reunions an element of anticipation and surprise."

But Josiah shakes his head. "When Bindy comes, she's going to ask if we did what we were supposed to. I never could look at those big blue eyes and lie to her, not even when I accidentally drove my riding lawn mower through her flower garden."

The men share a smile. "Yeah. She's the kind that's hard to lie to. I, uh, once accidentally tripped and spilled a potion on her gold ball gown. Fffft! The dress fizzled and vanished into thin air. I wanted to tell her the fairies stole it, but–"

"You couldn't bring yourself to lie to her?"

"Nope." Gold's eyes twinkle. "But that may have been because she was wearing the dress at the time."

Josiah snickers.

Gold hesitates. He and Josiah are guys, and guys don't talk about their feelings except in guy code, couching their emotions in sports talk. But he notices the thread of loneliness running beneath Dove's jokes, and he notices the dark circles under Dove's eyes. "You miss her."

"Yeah. Both of them." Dove rubs his forehead and his voice drops. "I was going to name him after my father–it was gonna be a boy. Bindy said a girl, but I knew it was a boy. Bindy wanted me in the delivery room with her. We were reading up on Lamaze. . . ."

Gold looks away to give the man a moment of privacy, and as his eyes roam the shop, his gaze falls upon the brown leather ball perched on a display platform. In an instant memory transports him to a cottage in a far-away, long-ago land, where a gray-eyed woman stands before a cozy fireplace. In her arms is a squirming, cooing bundle wrapped in a shawl. For the privilege of being present for that single moment, Rumplestiltskin had paid dearly, but no price was too high.

Dove had been anticipating such a moment, and to have the promise of it ripped from him must be awful.

"I mean, now that my memories are back, I know Faith was my True Love, but Bindy was. . .you just feel better when she's around, you know?" At Gold's nod, Josiah thinks for a moment, then his eyes widen. "Hell, Mr. G., you were awake from the curse for a full year. And us working for you–it must've been crazy, seeing her and me together, knowing. . .how things were supposed to be."

"Yeah. So. . . Widow Martin, huh? Okay, her eldest works at the cannery, I believe."

* * *

><p>Belle arrives just before noon with sandwiches. She distributes them and makes a fresh pot of coffee. "It's chaos out there. People running around trying to find each other. This is the only business in town that's open. School, city hall, Granny's, all closed. Emma and Snow and David are trying to organize everyone, but they really could use that list. How's it coming?"<p>

The men chortle.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm pleased to report that we're on the 'T's," Gold announces, then he laughs and Dove laughs too.

"Come on, fellas, what's–you haven't been nipping at that bottle of bourbon that you think I don't know you keep in the bottom drawer of your desk, have you?"

"No, we were just talking about flower gardens," Dove confesses.

Gold adds, "And ball gowns."

"You." She looks from the linebacker-built handyman to the ice-water-veined pawnbroker, and she's not buying a word of their explanation. "And you. Talking about flowers and ball gowns."

Dove shrugs. "Well, football season's months off yet."

"I'm glad you're both in a good mood and making such speedy progress." She folds her arms. "Because Snow's coming for that list right after lunch."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"Have you looked out your window today, Gold?–Hi, Jo, Belinda." Charming's voice precedes him as the front door swings open and the shopkeeper's bell jingles. "It's a madhouse out there."

"Good afternoon to you too, Prince David." Gold's lips curl in that smile that really isn't a smile. He nods to the female members of the family. "Queen Snow. Princess–"

"Don't you dare, Gold," Emma interrupts. "Let's keep it 'Ms. Swan' or 'Sheriff,' huh? Unless you want me to start calling you 'Rumpie.' And before you get all 'pays me what you owes me,' I haven't forgotten I owe you a favor."

"Two."

"Fine. Two," Emma sighs. "But in case you haven't noticed, the town's a mess right now, so those favors are gonna have to wait."

Coming up beside him, Belle gives Gold's jacket tail a little tug. He gets the point: for her, he'll play nice. It's to his advantage anyway; the sooner Emma gets Storybrooke in order, the sooner she'll pay those two favors. "Perhaps Mr. Dove and I can help. Oh, pardon me. I believe some re-introductions are in order. Your Majesties, Lady Belle of Avonlea and Josiah Dove of the Dark Mountains."

"Belinda, you're Lady Belle?" Snow captures Belle's hands. "Then is Moe French also Lord Maurice?" Emma elbows Snow, but Snow keeps talking. "I met him once, when he came to ask my father for help against the ogres."

Emma elbows Snow again and whispers something in her ear. Snow catches her breath and her gaze falls to Belle's flat belly. "Forgive me, Belle. I didn't realize. . . .I'm so sorry for your loss. Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," Belle mumbles, running her hand across her belly. "I don't really want to talk about it."

David's puzzled, not following the too-subtle conversation, so before he starts asking questions that will make Belle even more uncomfortable, Gold pushes the legal pad at him. "Here. This should help with your madhouse."

"And this is?"

"An identification guide."

"How's this work?" David's trying to figure out Dove's notation system.

"Mr. Dove will work with you this afternoon," Gold offers. "I don't expect much business in the shop today."

"Mr. Gold, thank you for this list. What do we owe you?" Sweet, shy Mary Margaret has been replaced, Gold thinks, by the royal bandit he once knew and admired. He has a vivid recollection of her asking him pretty much the same question when he presented Robin Hood's bow to her. Does she remember that day, he wonders, and did she ever realize the part he'd played then in reuniting her with Charming? And her daughter, the blonde Amazon, stands behind her, as if ready to attack if he threatens harm to Snow. She could do damage, even to him, Emma could, but she doesn't know it yet. He made her the curse breaker, but the Fates have assigned her a much bigger role that is yet to be discovered.

It's a good thing Belle is standing beside him, through her body language informing the royals which side she's on. They like Belle and some of that might transfer to him by association. Well, perhaps "like" is too much to hope for; "tolerance," then.

He casts a sideways glance at Belle, watching her reaction when he says, "No charge." She rewards him with a big smile–she's probably planning to reward him later with praise, but the fact is, this information he's providing Snow is a just a single payment on a debt he owes the innocents Regina dragged into this world. He hadn't been directly involved as she selected her victims, but he'd known what she was doing and had remained passive. The truth was, in those days, believing Belle dead and only Bae remained to live for, he just couldn't give a damn.

Things are different now. Belle's shoulder brushes against his, reminding him that for some bewildering reason, the Fates have chosen him for her to rescue.

David catches the shoulder brush and his eyes widen.

"No charge," Gold reiterates.

"Thank you." The tension eases now from Snow's shoulders. She's never trusted him but she's always believed him; she's one of the few he did give a damn about, and somehow she knows that. She turns to Dove. "We're working out of the courthouse. If you're ready?"

"Yes, ma'am." Dove holds the door for her and begins explaining the symbols on his legal pad.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning, Gold," Emma says, her fingers trailing idly across the case that is still sitting atop his counter. She seems fascinated by the case; soon enough he'll tell her why it's special. "To start paying down those favors."

"I shall be waiting."

She transfers her interest in the case to him. "If we had time right now, I'd be ordering you to give a full explanation about this curse business, since it doesn't look like we'll get one from Regina."

"If we had time," he acknowledges. "But that too will have to wait. Has there been any sign of our dear mayor?"

"There was a report of a black Mercedes leaving town at sunrise today. Headed east. Only two people in Storybrooke can afford a Mercedes, and obviously, you prefer big cars, so we figure she's out of our hair."

"For the time being. Nevertheless, the town should be alerted. I don't think she'll give up Henry without another fight."

"Well, maybe I can hire an attorney this time."

"Should they be needed, I may be able to offer my services this time."

Emma starts to follow her mother out, but pauses. "You didn't ask how Henry is. You knew he'd be okay, didn't you?"

"Your love for him is true."

She nods. "I'll be back tomorrow morning." The shopkeeper's bell jingles as she leaves.

Her father, however, lingers with a sly smile on his face. "So, uhm," he tilts his head toward Belle. "Flicker of light in an ocean of darkness?"

Gold's smile turns silly. "A full-on lighthouse, actually."

As David leaves, Gold takes Belle's hand. "Shall we go home?"

She doesn't get the chance to answer. Jefferson comes busting in even as Gold is flipping over the "closed" sign. "Rumplestiltskin!" He gives Belle a hasty nod. "Hey, Belle." He grabs a handful of Gold's jacket. "Rumplestiltskin! You've gotta help me."

"Not now, dearie. This Boy Scout's done his mandatory good deed for the day." Gold pries the fingers from his lapel. "And you, of all people, should know better than to manhandle Armani."

"Please." Jefferson runs his hands through his wild shock of hair. "It's Grace."

Belle sets a soft hand on Gold's arm. "Rumple, we can take the time to listen."

"Sweetheart, you need to rest."

"It's about a child," she says firmly.

"All right, Jefferson." He directs the hatter toward the workroom. "Come back, I'll pour you a cup of coffee, and tells us what–"

He's interrupted by a ringing phone. Gold blinks: he didn't even know that old black rotary phone on his counter worked: it's never rung before. Belle calmly takes charge, ushering the men to the back room. "I'll get that. You go back there and talk." She picks up the receiver.

"Thank you, Belle." Gold sighs in relief.

"I'm glad to be needed," she says, then speaks into the mouthpiece. "Gold's Pawn."

Jefferson fidgets as Gold invites him to be seated on the workbench, but then, he always was a fidgeter. A pitfall of youth: too much energy, too narrow a vision to take the long view. "She found me. I was going to her but she found me first and she remembered everything and she still loves me but—"

"Jefferson." Gold clamps a hand firmly onto the hatter's shoulder, anchoring him to the bench. "Calm down. Hmm, maybe you shouldn't have that coffee after all." He plugs in the kettle, sprinkles tea leaves into his teapot, and places a sugar bowl and a spoon in front of his guest.

Jefferson stares at the sugar bowl as if he has no idea what it's for. "But she loves them too. She doesn't want to hurt their feelings. They love her, they still think of her as their daughter—"

"It's only been one day," Gold points out, sitting down across from the hatter. "The freeing up of original memories—real memories—didn't erase the false ones. People are going to need time to adjust."

"Two sets of memories in one head." The lad shakes his head in disbelief. "It's pure hell. She must be going out of her mind. How do I help her?"

"It's not that bad. Headaches and confusion for the first ten minutes or so, but then the mind begins to order itself; the headache goes away. For most of the people here, their false identities were different enough from the real ones that they're able to sort out which memories go where fairly quickly." The water is bubbling, so Gold unplugs the kettle and pours the water into the pot and covers it. "And for most people here, the joy of rediscovering family and friends will help them overcome the confusion rather quickly. I'm sure that will be true for Grace."

"What about the other thing? Two sets of parents, two houses—Rumple, you got to help me. You're still a lawyer, right? No, wait, that was your fake self. I suppose nothing you'd do now would stand up in court."

Bringing the pot to the worktable, Gold smiles stiffly. "I suppose it would depend upon which court: Maine's or Queen Snow's. My memories of this world may be fake, but my knowledge of the laws of this world is accurate. Fake license or not, I'm still better qualified in matters of family law than anyone else here."

"Yeah, I guess. Will you take the case? You know I can pay whatever you charge."

"Calm down, youngster. You'll give yourself a heart attack." Gold sets the timer on his watch. "Grace has been living with the Wilsons for thirty years. Of course they've bonded. And they're good people. You don't want to drive them out of her life, do you?"

"But I'm—"

Gold raises a warning hand. "I know you are. She knows you are. They know you are. But she's a child, not a—a hat you made. It's her needs you should be thinking about." He sighs. "I'm going out of town tomorrow, for an indefinite period of—"

"You can't! You have to help me with this."

Gold quirks an eyebrow. "'Have to'? I don't owe you anything, Jefferson."

"It's a little girl, a ten-year-old child."

"What about _my_ child?" The alarm on Gold's wristwatch buzzes. He shuts it off and pours the tea into the three cups.

"What do you mean? You have a child?"

Gold stands, picking up his cane and one of the cups. "Pardon me a moment. Belle might like a cup." He ignores Jefferson's protests and taps out to the front, where Belle is leaning one elbow on the counter and taking notes. Her shoulder is hunched to press the phone receiver to her ear.

"Uh huh. . . . Yeah. . . .Don't worry. I'm sure he can help. . . . Oh, don't worry about that. It's restoring families that he cares about, not money."

"Belle!" Gold yelps. He sets the cup down and tries to reach for the phone, but she turns her back to him.

"Of course. . . He'll call you later today, I promise. And don't worry. It'll all get straightened out. . . .Yes, I promise. Goodbye, Ms. Crawford." She smiles brightly and innocently at him as she hangs up. "Tea? Oh, thanks so much. I'm parched." But before she can bring the cup to her lips, the phone rings again.

"Belle, are you aware that my normal fee is more per hour than the average Storybrooker makes in three days?"

"Oh, I'm telling everyone you'll waive your fee this one time." She sips the mint tea and sighs. "So good."

"What, the tea or me?" he grouses, and she gives him a playful swat before picking up the receiver.

"Gold's Pawn. This is Belle. How may I—oh, yes, Mr. Bartleby, but he's with a client right now. Why don't you tell me the situation and I'll have him call as soon as he can. All right?" She winks at Gold.

Gold turns back to the workroom. "Good gods. You'll have me bankrupt before the end of the month." But he smiles over his shoulder at her.

She's hoarse as they close up shop, two hours later than his normal closing time. "Your first appointment is for nine. I've scheduled them an hour apart—"

"Them?! How many are there?"

"I hope an hour's enough time for an initial assessment. I figure we should work out of your den at home. The furniture's so much more comfortable and you've got your law books and your computer there, and I can bring in tea and sandwiches so you won't have to interrupt your work to eat lunch."

"You're taking my lunch hour away too? That's uncivilized!" He unlocks the front door. "If we're going to work from home tomorrow, I have to get something."

She waits in the entrance as he retrieves the case from the counter, and they leave again.

"What's that?"

"Something Ms. Swan will be picking up in the morning. Remind me to call her tonight."

She giggles as she kisses his cheek. "Isn't it great to be needed? You've had thirty years of standing behind a counter waiting for someone to walk in to that shop. Well, now they're coming. And you get to work out of the comfort of your own home. I can put on some music in the background, open the drapes—the windows in your den look out over the garden. If your ankle stiffens, you can go out and take a walk. Won't that be nice?"

"I suppose I could write it off on my taxes, if I'm using the den as a home office, then." He tucks her arm into his as he directs her to the back alley, where the Caddy is parked.

"In the morning I'll get a stew going in the crockpot, and then I can come in and take notes for you, if you like. We can leave the door to the den open so the smells from the kitchen waft through."

"Ohhh, Belle. . . With those little pearl onions?" She's won, even if the answer on the onions is no.

"And cloverleaf rolls. And a pie. I think I have a carton of blueberries. For supper tonight, I'll do a spinach quiche, and then we'll get your den in order. You know, I'm a good researcher. I can save you time, look things up for you in your books." In the streetlight, she appears pale, but she's glowing. To be in a position in which her special skills will be called upon to help people, it's the best medicine she could take right now. However irksome the thought is of having his precious time chewed up by all these whiny people who lack the backbone and the intelligence to work out their own agreements, he won't take away the medicine that's brought her energy back.

Well, Josiah can run the shop and manage the rental properties. Maybe the work will do him some good too. If Gold and Belle devote themselves full-time to the law practice, probably in a couple of weeks they'll have finished with all the families requiring his services. And meantime, during those couple of weeks, he can sneak away when she's asleep to experiment. He's no rose-colored-glasses-wearing fool: he realizes that when magic is introduced to a land for the first time, it may behave differently. Testing will be required before he's confident enough in his understanding of those differences to depend upon magic again. . . to trust it again.

It's then, and not until then, he decides, that he will tell Belle what he's done. He wants to be powerful, fully himself again, before he faces this woman's wrath.

Chattering, she's leaning on him; with his limp, he's leaning on her. It works out well. Her plan will work out well. They will work out very well.

* * *

><p><strong>AN. In case anyone was wondering about my choice of the spelling of Josiah's nickname–"Jo" instead of the more common "Joe"–it's a tribute to screenwriter Jo Swerling and his son, TV producer Jo Jr.**

**Thank you to everyone for the comments and the favorites! Coming up: Belle prods Gold into becoming a good citizen; a father and a daughter tag-team a dragon, the remainder of the curse places Dove in a perilous predicament and pushes Belle into making a difficult decision, and magic is coming. But first, I've always felt the series glossed over the problem of the families that the curse created, families like Paige and her Storybrooke parents; just because the Storybrooke identities were unreal doesn't mean the love was too. So I'm going to spend a little time exploring that, and perhaps by reflecting on his feelings for a baby that never really existed, Gold will see the full ramifications of the curse.**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

He awakens in the middle of the night, needing the bathroom, but he quickly forgets the call of nature when he notices there's a pillow where Belle should be. He slides into his slippers, grabs his cane and thumps from room to room in search of her. Dread rises when he's searched both floors of their house and hasn't located her. He begins to flip on lights to look for clues. Her keys are with his, in the bowl on the credenza in the foyer. Her blue coat and her windbreaker are in the hall closet next to his coats. The notepad on the fridge carries only a grocery list, no note. He tries to make his voice sound demanding but it comes out a bit shaky as he calls her name.

The back door is unlocked. "Belle!" he barks, stumbling out on the porch.

"Here, Rumple." The light from the kitchen streams through the open door, creating bright pools of light. He can see her feet in their bunny slippers, but the rest of her is in shadow. He's so relieved he doesn't notice the scratchiness in her voice. He flips on the porch light and she blinks, drenched in light.

"Are you okay?" He comes out into the chilly night.

"I just came out to—aw, who am I kidding?" She's huddled in her bathrobe and swaying in the swing. She slides over to make room for him; he sits beside her and to his relief, she snuggles against him. There's a mini-package of Kleenex peeping out of her pocket and her nose is stuffy. "I dreamed about the baby."

He slides an arm about her shoulders. He has no idea what to say. Not even magic could take away this pain. He brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her forehead. "Shall we call Archie tomorrow?"

"I'll be all right. It's just going to take a while," she assures him. "We're going to be awfully busy tomorrow; that will help. What we'll be doing, it's important. It's good."

"Yes."

"And I imagine Archie's just as busy as we'll be, helping these families reconnect."

"Your feelings are just as important as anyone else's. He'll make time." There's no one in Storybrooke who wouldn't make time for Belinda Dove.

"How about you? Would you like to talk to him too?"

He's ready to refuse. It's never been in his nature to confide or confess, not even when he was a frightened child whose father had thrown him away. He wouldn't even know how to begin; it's difficult enough to open up with the woman he trusts implicitly. How could he, the most powerful being in two lands, go hat-in-hand to the man he used to buy stolen goods from? He pictures himself in his Armani suit and Ferragamos sobbing on the former cricket's shoulder: "The curse fooled me too, Doctor. I had duckies and everything ready for a baby that didn't even exist." The image makes him snort. Duckies and teddy bears and all that–except the snort ends in a gulp.

Belle notices and grips his arm. He glances down at her, embarrassed; he's the man here, damn it, the sorcerer, the 300-year-old sage. He's supposed to be offering her wise words of comfort.

"One of the things I've always admired about you is your deep capacity for caring," she says softly. "Time and distance couldn't weaken your love for Bae, and I think you would have shown Adelena and me the same dedication. You miss her too, don't you?"

He rests his cheek against the top of her head. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a few words with Archie."

* * *

><p>The doorbell interrupts his waffle baking. He hurries to front door, ready to cuss out Jefferson for disturbing him at an ungodsly hour and probably waking Belle, but he finds the three adult Charmings on his stoop instead. For a man who's built his careers on words, the best he can manage as he invites in a curious David, a grim Emma and a sympathetic-eyed Snow is "humpf."<p>

"I came like I promised," Emma says.

"And I came to see how Belle is doing," Snow says.

Which leaves Charming. Gold scowls at him and he shrugs. "I came because I just don't trust you."

Gold can't hold in a chuckle. "You like waffles?"

Belle has dressed–ready for her first day as a paralegal, she's in a blazer and slacks, with her hair in a bun; he finds the professional look quite enticing on her–and she's in the kitchen, making coffee. She welcomes their guests, kisses Gold's cheek, and brings extra dishes from the cupboard. "Join us for breakfast? There's more than enough."

"That's so kind of you." Snow comes over to the stove. "May I help?" And she's instantly put in charge of squeezing oranges.

"Mm, waffles. . . ." Emma peers over Gold's shoulder as he pours batter into the waffle iron. "From scratch, too, not the toaster kind. Never pictured you for a cook, Gold."

"I make exceptions for the right people." He smiles over at Belle.

"Man, you people eat good. Our fridge was bare: all we had was cereal."

"If you wish to speed things along so you can assuage your hunger, you can start the bacon. You'll find a skillet in the bottom cupboard."

David pitches in. "I'll set the table." Silverware in hand, he pauses to survey the scene. "Not every day you see this. A queen squeezing oranges, a noblewoman making coffee, a princess frying–"

"Sheriff," Emma brandishes a meat fork. Gold visualizes her with a sword instead.

"A sheriff frying bacon and a wizard with a waffle iron."

"This is America," Belle shrugs. "Where titles mean next to nothing."

"Indeed," Gold flips the first waffle onto a platter. "Where a man is judged by the golden perfection of his waffles."

"Well, then, I'm screwed," Emma confesses. "I burn water."

"Perhaps, Ms. Swan, you were born for bigger things. You do, after all, possess the genes of an ogre-killing archer and a sword-slashing dragon slayer."

"Cripes. Thanks for reminding me, Gold. No way I can live up to that. Good thing the only ogres and dragons we got here are in Henry's book."

"Well," Gold pours the batter for the next waffle. "Perhaps the opportunity to test yourself will arise sooner than you think."

"Sounds like you're about ready to tell me about that first favor," Emma remarks as she turns the bacon.

"After breakfast. You're going to need fortification."

"Crap on a cracker. That doesn't sound good. Well, at least tell us what this curse thing was for. From the sheer size of it, it must've been a helluva lot of work, so what was it supposed to accomplish?" Emma motions to her father. "Hand me that platter, will you, David? Bacon's almost done." Preoccupied with her cooking, Emma is slow to notice Gold's silence, but when the bacon is drained and plated, she directs her attention to him again. "Well?"

"Half the story now, the other half when you've fulfilled your first obligation." Gold tosses a second waffle onto a platter.

"Why can't you make things simple?" David groans.

"Ask Henry: the smart way to run an operation is on a need-to-know basis."

David's contemplating a response, but Belle stays him with a gentle hand. "Don't bother, David. Be grateful he's willing to tell you this much."

Gold examines the third waffle and, deciding it's golden enough, flips it onto the platter and launches number four. "Be seated, children, and I shall tell you the story of a fresh-faced princess, her stable boy boyfriend, and the queen of all stage mothers. Once upon a time, there was a miller's daughter named Cora. . . ."

* * *

><p>David, Gold and Emma leave Belle and Snow in the kitchen, cleaning up–but also talking about the baby that might have been. From his den, Gold can hear their soft but intense voices; he is grateful that Belle has a confidante, but his guilt gnaws at him. No one except Regina knows his role in the curse, and he wishes it could stay that way, but he gave his word this morning to Emma to tell her the other half of the story–his–when she's retrieved the True Love potion.<p>

He opens the case lying on his roller top desk. Emma is impressed; David draws in a deep breath. "Wow." The former prince reverently removes the sword from the case and holds it lightly, as though afraid it will crumble to dust. "Emma, this was mine. I fought a war with this sword."

"Cool." Emma runs a finger across the flat of the blade.

"And fought a dragon," Gold reminds him. "As will you, Ms. Swan, today."

"What the f–" "What're you talking about, Gold?" Father and daughter talk over each other.

He waits for them to calm down. "I believe, David, you'll find the sword is in excellent condition, having been recently sharpened and well taken care of; and I believe, Emma, you'll find it more than adequate to defeat Maleficent. Perhaps you'd like to tell this story, David?"

David is inspecting his treasure, one of the few objects, other than his horse and his truck, that he cares about. "Well, it all started–"

"Once upon a time," Emma corrects him. "You have to start with 'once upon a time.'"

"Fine," David sighs, laying the sword back in the case. "Once upon a time there was a prince-well, really, a shepherd in prince's clothing–who fell in love with your mother, who was, like Gold said in his story, being harassed by Regina. The prince wanted to find her-Snow, I mean, not Regina–because she–Regina, I mean–put her under a sleeping curse and everybody knows you can wake them up if their true love kisses them. And there was this weird little guy with a helluva lot of magic, and–"

"David," Emma raises a staying hand. "Just cut to the chase, huh? You're confusing me."

"Right, well, Rumplestiltskin here made me a deal: he'd help me find your mom if I'd put this Christmas ornament thing inside the belly of a dragon. See, inside the ornament was a potion. He said it was True Love, the most powerful potion in the world, and it has to be protected at all costs, so he-Gold, what the hell did you mean by having me put in a dragon? You expect Emma to go back to the Enchanted Forest to fetch your potion? You know we don't have a portal."

"Not necessary. The dragon is here."

"What?!"

"You gotta be nuts, Gold!"

"Lying, more like. I've lived in this town thirty years. If there was a dragon living here, don't you think I'd know it? The droppings alone would be impossible to hide."

"The dragon has been drugged. No eating; therefore, no droppings. And no noise or moving around," Gold explains. "Regina just couldn't resist bringing her to Storybrooke."

"Her? The dragon is a her?"

"Her name is Maleficent."

"And where did Regina hide a dragon?"

"In the basement of the library, of course."

"Oh. Of course. And now I'm gonna take that sword and go down there and split the dragon open so I can scoop True Love from its belly." Emma crosses her arms and taps her foot.

"Well, you don't have to go alone. I'll operate the elevator for you."

"No," David interrupts. "I'm going."

"Pardon me, Your Highness, but it has to be Emma. She's the savior; it's her destiny," Gold insists.

"You up for this?" David raises an eyebrow at his daughter.

"I didn't have anything else to do today." Emma picks up the sword. "This thing's a lot heavier than it looks."

"Gets even heavier when you're running away from a dragon with it," David cautions. "You aren't going alone, Emma. I'm going with you." He takes the sword from her and swings it above his head, testing his arm. "Yeah. Feels right. We'll get you a lighter sword."

"All I need are my buddies Smith and Wesson," Emma pats the handgun she keeps in the back of her jeans.

"Got news for you, daughter: dragon hide is like a foot-thick wall of rubber," David instructs. "Unless you manage to shoot Mal in the eye, you're going to need a sword."

"Crap on a cracker," Emma mutters. "So where do we get a women's size sword?"

The two Charmings look to Gold, who merely jingles his keys in invitation. "We'll take my car. It so happens I have your mother's sword as well." He calls into the kitchen, "Belle, we're going out to run an errand. We'll be back in time for my first appointment."

"Okay, Rumple. Bring back a carton of eggs," Belle calls back.

"I swear," Emma remarks, following the men out the door. "When I wished on my birthday candle to have something exciting happen to me, tag-teaming a dragon wasn't what I was thinking of." She stares at her father, who's younger than she is, and the pawnbroker, who's so old he can't even remember his age. "Not even close."

* * *

><p>In a few minutes she and her dad are stepping off an ancient, manually operated elevator into a cavern (not a basement; she'll be sure to correct Gold on that point when they go back up to the main floor). Each of them has a freshly sharpened sword in hand.<p>

In a stage whisper, Gold calls down to them, "Do you see her? Do you see Maleficent?"

David looks up at the worried pawnbroker. "You wanna come down and help us look?"

"Oh no, dearie. That's not my role in this story." He hates to torture his Armani with the thick layer of dust coating the linoleum, but there's no other way he can follow the proceedings in the basement but to lie on his stomach and lean over the edge of the elevator shaft. As he observes the action below, his fingers tingle with the memory of magic. How easy this task would be and how simple if he could do it all himself with a few spells, but for the moment, he's still plain old Gold, human; not unless–_until_ the heroes have fulfilled their assignment will Rumplestiltskin the sorcerer return. So, his fingers tingling and his nose twitching from dust, he listens and watches and speculates: what would Rumplestiltskin do if he were down there?

"Then shut up and let us hunt." David signals to Emma: he will go one direction, she the other. "No more birthday wishes for me," she mutters. And then she backs into something big and scaly and cold and breathing. "Ohhh, crap. Uh, Dad? I think I found her."

Paralyzed with fear, Emma can only stare over her shoulder as the wall behind her shifts, then rises up and becomes a gigantic winged thing that roars and tosses its head and shoots flames from its snout. "Dad? What do I do?" She stuffs the sword into the scabbard tied to her belt and reaches for her Smith & Wesson.

David is gesturing wildly in the direction opposite his own. "Emma, run!" He shouts.

Emma runs, shouting back, "Are you telling me dragons can't run?"

"They can't. Too heavy. They can fly though."

As if taking the cue, the dragon rises awkwardly into the air and pursues Emma. David plants his feet squarely, raises his sword above his head and swings it with both hands, then sends it, straight as one of Snow's arrows, at the beast's throat, but the beast rises at the last minute and the sword bounces uselessly off the armored belly. As Emma swings around and fires off a round from her Smith & Wesson, David rushes forward to retrieve his sword and try again. "Emma! I told you that won't work. Throw your sword. Try to strike its eye or its throat or the area right over the heart. The skin is thinner there."

"What?" Emma's having trouble hearing over the dragon's roar. She gapes as the beast lands on its spindly legs right in front of her, blocking her escape route. She keeps firing, the bullets keep bouncing, and when they're gone she throws the gun, aiming for the dragon's eye but it enters the creature's mouth and is swallowed.

"Emma! Throw your sword!"

Emma glances backwards. If she takes two more steps back, she'll drop off a cliff. There's nothing else for it: she squeezes her eyes shut and flings the sword.

There's a tremendous roar, a burst of flame that singes Emma's eyebrows, then a moan and a shower of ash raining down on the sheriff and her shepherd/dragon slayer father. "Emma, you did it!"

Gold calls down, "Congratulations, Ms. Swan! Now look for the ornamental egg."

As David runs toward her, she opens her eyes. Her sword clangs as it hits the rocks, kicking up a cloud of ash. There's another clang as a big Christmas ornament drops from the sky, hits a boulder, bounces and lands at Emma's feet.

"Are you all right?" David grabs her elbows, turns her toward the light beaming from the elevator shaft and inspects her for injuries. "Any burns?"

"I'm okay, except. . . ." Emma presses her hand to her mouth. "I wish I hadn't eaten that second waffle."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The ornamental egg is a beautiful thing, though perhaps a little too flashy for modern tastes, and he created it, not by transforming something else but by combining magic with thought. The former method would have been more economical—he could have easily transformed a pinecone or a stone into this egg-shaped case and doing so would have required less magic—but he wanted this container to be brand-new, a product of pure imagination, because it would shelter the greatest achievement wizardry had ever seen, would ever see; nothing he or any other sorcerer would do henceforth could compare with his production of the True Love Potion.

With a quick glance at Emma, who sets the jeweled container in his outstretched hands, and her father, who had unwittingly provided half the necessary ingredients for this potion, for just a second Gold wonders whether he could recreate the formula using samples from other True Lovers—himself and Belle, for instance. Would the magic produced from a different couple be different from the fuchsia-colored liquid now in the vial? Would it act different, smell different? Then the solid-gold egg is placed in his hands and he draws it to his chest, cradling it as he once cradled a precious infant for whom he'd sacrificed so much. His fingers stroke the raised patterns on the ornate case: fleurs de lis and interlocking diamonds. As a practitioner of magic, he is proud of his achievement and fully cognizant of the fact that this potion can grant him powers surpassing any ever known. Surrounding the egg with his arms, he can feel the vibration of the magic contained within; that's how powerful the potion is. Even with an inch of solid gold between him and the potion, the cells in his fingertips are dancing, pulling towards the power, and his mouth comes alive with the long-forgotten taste of magic, the flavors of treacle and brimstone and exotic spices. He hasn't even unleashed the magic yet, but his body remembers and yearns.

His imagination fires with thoughts of all the things he will be able to do with this great power: his magic might even be freed from the laws that have constrained it. What if he now has the ability to raise the dead or bring forth love where none exists? But Rumplestiltskin, while the most skilled and learned of all the Dark Ones, is, his predecessors would say, the least ambitious. Everything he's achieved in magic has been in service to one goal only—one disappointingly ordinary and very human goal.

"So what are you going to do with it?" David is asking.

"Huh?" Gold only half-hears the question.

"I figure we've got a right to know. After all, I risked my life twice to protect that thing."

"If this is a love potion," Emma begins.

But Gold interrupts her. "Not 'a love potion,' Ms. Swan. A _True Love_ potion—_the_ True Love potion. There is not and never has been another."

"I stand corrected," Emma concedes. "_Since_ this is the True Love potion, what's it do? Does it make people fall in love?"

"It's my hope," Gold says, "that it will accomplish much more."

"Which would be?"

"Forgiveness."

"That sounds like the beginning of another story," Emma smiles. "The one you promised to tell me after I fulfilled this end of our bargain."

"Very soon, Ms. Swan," Gold assures her. He wants to get rid of David first; he intends to swear Emma to secrecy before he tells her the rest of the story. The fewer people who know about his role in the curse, the better; she will have to be told in order to take him to Bae, but no one else need know: certainly not her parents, who would probably promptly toss him in jail—with Regina, once she's caught, going into the adjacent cell—nor the townsfolk, who foolishly tend to hunt down monsters with their useless pitchforks and pickaxes. And certainly not Belle, who's got way too much to deal with as it is.

And certainly not Belle, who—if he's brutally honest with himself—is too new to loving him again to forgive him for the curse that fractured families and dumped them into false lives. . . the curse that gave her a lie in place of a baby. No, it's too soon for her to hear the full story. "This is a very precious object," he says of the egg. "We need to take it somewhere safe."

"Besides, we need to get cleaned up," David suggests, brushing ash from his denim jacket. "I've got dragon all over me. Let's go back—"

But a honking car horn breaks in and a Honda appears around the corner, coming to a stop just behind Gold's Caddy. Belle jumps out, leaving the engine running. "There you are!" she sounds exasperated. "I went to the grocery and Clark's—what are you doing here?" She peers past the trio and into the library, the doors of which stand open for the first time ever.

"We, uh, had an errand," Gold says, then spins the question around. "Why were you looking for me? Is something wrong?"

"You're late," Belle points up at the clock above the library. "And your cell phone's off so I couldn't call you. Ms. Crawford arrived at the house fifteen minutes ago. Mary—I mean, Snow—is keeping her occupied, but the next appointment will arrive at ten."

"Well, every lawyer I've ever known has always been late to appointments," Emma supplies. "It makes them seem more valuable, you know? Plus they get paid by the hour."

Gold frowns at her. "Thank you, Ms. Swan, I think."

Belle yanks at his sleeve. "Come on, Rumple, we need to get you back. Poor Ms. Crawford's scared to death she's going to lose custody of Little Tom."

"Come on, Emma, let's go home," David says. "See ya, Gold. Thanks for the waffles and Old Dragon Cutter." He pats the sword riding on his hip.

"I'll be by tonight, Gold," Emma informs him. "You're not getting off that easy."

"I never break a bargain, Ms. Swan," he assures her as he opens the driver's side door of the Caddy.

"Hey, what is that?" Belle asks, indicating the ornamental egg.

"A relic of the past," he answers, laying it carefully on the passenger seat before climbing behind the steering wheel. "And a hope for the future. I'll meet you back at the house shortly, sweetheart."

* * *

><p>He enters the house through the basement and hides the egg in his tool cabinet. It's an unworthy storage for such a precious potion, but his safe is in his den, where Snow and Ms. Crawford are sipping tea. No one comes into the basement. Besides Belle, no one knows his house even has a basement because he's never had visitors. . .because he's never had friends other than the Doves. Ever. With Belle living under his roof now, he feels the prick of loneliness at that realization. He's lived with the lack of companionship for centuries now, stretching back far before he became the Dark One: no one wants the company of a child whose father rejected him, nor that of an army deserter whose wife flaunted her infidelity.<p>

Just as well, he used to tell himself; the Dark One may keep his secrets safe then. And then Belle came along with her curiosity and her caring.

He'll have to tell her about the potion, soon. And eventually, the curse and Milah and Hordor and Hook and Pan and the entire cast of characters from his sordid life. She needs to know what she's getting into. When she took her vow to go with him forever, she was naïve and uninformed. Just as Zoso had done to Rumplestiltskin, Rumple had done to her, withholding information that could have caused her to refuse the deal he offered her. She deserves full disclosure; she's earned it, right enough, after all she's been dragged through for his sake.

He brushes off his jacket, straightens his tie and climbs the stairs that lead into the kitchen. He washes his face at the sink, buying a few seconds to collect himself before he enters the den in long, confident strides. "Ms. Crawford, Ms. Blanchard, sorry to keep you waiting. Now," he picks up his Mont Blanc fountain pen. "Suppose you tell me your situation, Ms. Crawford."

Snow discreetly excuses herself.

As the eleven o'clock client leaves, Belle enters, bearing a tray of sandwiches—but, with Belinda's culinary skills fresh in her mind, it's not cold cuts she's bringing, but real, substantial food: French dip roast beef with a Caesar salad.

"Thank you," he sighs, reaching for the sandwich, but she slaps his hand away.

"Huh uh." She opens a cloth napkin and tucks it into his shirt. "Don't want to drip on that three-hundred dollar tie." She sits across the desk from him and asks about the cases he's accepted so far. "You haven't turned anyone away, have you?"

"No," he admits, and she beams. "But, Belle, it's going to be a tremendous amount of work. Some of these people will probably end up fixing their own problems, but some will have to go to court. It could take months. Why should I be taking care of strangers when you need me?"

She abandons her salad, folding her hands in her lap and leaning back in the leather chair. "I do need you, especially now. I'm still feeling. . . unsettled. I'm still in mourning. And I'm angry–it's so damn unfair! But Rumple, I need something to occupy my mind, productive and positive work to do, and I think this—" she sweeps her hand in the air, indicating the shelves full of law books behind his desk—"will be good for us. Working together will bring us together." She sips her tea. "I called Archie for an appointment. I'm seeing him tomorrow afternoon."

He nods. "What time?"

"Rumple. . . he wants to see me and Jo first."

He chews slowly, thinking. "Not you and Jo and me?"

"Not yet. He says Jo and I need to close the door on our marriage first before we move on."

Gold falls silent, his chewing becoming angry.

"Rumple, it's you I love. It's always been you."

He wants to stay angry; he wants to wallow in jealousy because if he punishes himself hard enough, maybe she won't have to. But she's sitting across the antique desk looking as unguarded and giving as she did the day she sat on the dining table in the Great Hall and asked to be allowed to get to know him. He starts to smile in spite of himself and a drop of the French dip slides down his lip. His tongue darts out to catch it. She smiles then: "You look just like a little boy sometimes."

"Only you could overlook the gray hair and wrinkles." He smiles back at her. "Yes. Working together will be good for us." He holds back a sigh of frustration when he thinks about that potion waiting for him in the basement—and that son, waiting for him somewhere out there. "Perhaps this afternoon you could begin the research we'll need for these cases. Along with studying custody and marriage laws, we'll look for precedents." Then he shakes his head. "Although, dollars to donuts, we won't find any previous cases that involve the custody of children taken from their families by a curse."

"Well, our life has never been simple. Why should that change now?"

The doorbell rings and he protests when she swipes his unfinished sandwich, gathering the dishes onto the tray. "You don't want to keep another client waiting, do you?"

"When it's your cooking, I do," he grumbles, snatching the sandwich back. "Give him a sandwich and then he won't complain about the wait."

She laughs over her shoulder as she leaves to answer the door.

* * *

><p>They're sitting on the back porch swing, watching the sun go down hand in hand like an old married couple as the dishwasher swishes in the background. They've worked hard today; they both had lessons to learn. They sway in blissful silence.<p>

He wonders if there's a swing on the back porch at the ranch house.

Oh, but it's he, not Dove, that Belle is snuggled up to tonight, and he's going to do his damnedest to keep it that way. Gold feels a little guilty, but he assures himself that what Josiah must be feeling for Belle now is the loss of companionship, not the loss of love. It's Belinda that Josiah loved, and Belinda and the man Josiah was when under the curse no longer exist. Soon, what Josiah feels when he thinks back on that marriage will be a vague fondness and a dimming nostalgia. Or so Gold hopes.

And then Gold wonders if fondness and nostalgia are what Bae feels when he thinks about his father. Or is it hurt, anger—or worse, nothing at all?

The doorbell rings.

Belle moans and sits up, rubbing her eyes. "I was nearly asleep," she complains.

"Leave it," he urges. "Let them go away. They can come back tomorrow."

She stands slowly. "It might be important."

He hauls himself up with his cane and urges her to sit back down. "Rest. I'll get rid of them."

"Be nice, Rumple," she warns, but she lies down on the swing.

The sheriff in her red leather jacket is standing at his front door. "I'm back, like I said."

"So you did. So you are." But he blocks the doorway. "Don't you ever get tired, Ms. Swan?"

"A savior's work is never done," she quips. "Especially not when your mom's Snow White and your dad's Prince Charming."

"Point taken. Speaking of which?" He peers past her into the darkness.

"Oh, they're at home, getting some quality time with their grandson." Emma shakes her head in disbelief. "I have no idea how we'll explain this to other people when we leave here."

"You'll think of something." He allows her to hear the weariness in his voice. "It's nine o'clock. What did you come for that can't wait until tomorrow?"

"You promised me a story, remember?" Emma pushes her way into the foyer. "Bedtime's the perfect time for it."

"Oh. Yes. Well—"

"I'd like to hear a story too. Hi, Emma."

Caught, Gold grips the handle of his cane and forces a smile as he turns to face Belle.

"Hey, Lin. Thanks for breakfast this morning, by the way."

Gold surrenders, closing the door. "Won't you come in, Ms. Swan?"

"Let's go into the kitchen," Belle suggests. "I'll put on the kettle. I have some fresh cookies."

Gold trails after the women. He's trapped now. He starts planning how to edit the story, to leave out the parts that might cause Belle to give up on him. He's still editing when, cups of tea and plates of cookies distributed all around, the women finish their polite chatter and stare at him. Waiting for the truth in its entirety.

He pleads with Belle with his eyes.

"I've just come from a marriage based on falsehood," she reminds him softly.

He nods, understanding her implication; and she's right: she can't tolerate more deception. Nor can he. He stirs his tea, watching the cloud of milk dissipate. Then he sets his spoon down and looks at her nakedly. As he speaks, his voice is neither Gold's slow, solemn one nor Rumplestiltskin's high-pitched, fast-talking one. "All right. This is the story of an unwanted, abandoned child and a very much wanted but abandoned child. Once upon a time. . . ."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Belle, you're tired. We put in a long day. This can wait–it's a long, complicated story."

"No, it won't wait. Both of us need this." Her hand covers his and squeezes. The gesture is both a reassurance of unwavering support and a warning not to dodge or duck. She will accept only the truth and she'll know it if he strays. Emma's not the only one with that built-in lie detector. "Remember: it's forever," she whispers.

"That vow's going to have to bear an awful weight," he cautions.

"We're strong enough."

They've all but forgotten their guest, who's busied herself with her tea, allowing them a hint of privacy. Now Gold catches Emma's eye and nods, indicating his–not his _willingness_, because he would never tell this story on his own volition, but his _acceptance_ of the task. In the tradition of the old ways, he starts in third person; he stays with it because it's easier to remain truthful if he doesn't have to say "I."

"Once upon a time, centuries before the founding of Avonlea, decades before the settlement of the Enchanted Forest, there was a village called Loameth in the northern Frontlands. In this village lived a man named Malcolm. He was handsome and healthy and strong, but he was also inclined to think himself more clever and cunning than he really was, and so he believed he should earn his living not as a laborer, as his father before him, nor a craftsman, as he might have become if he'd had the patience that comes with a practical dream. He saw himself acquiring quick wealth through gambling, and when that failed, he attempted unsuccessfully to take his living with con games, but he lacked the imagination and the perceptiveness to become skilled. Usually, his marks caught him and beat him. Sometimes it was he who was conned. More often than not, he was run out of town. He would wander the Frontlands, but when he was desperate he would come back to Loameth, where he had family, and they would take him in, until he got the wanderlust again.

"One day, he returned, half-starved, his arm broken from a failed con game, to find that he'd become a father. His. . . uh, sometime bedmate had delivered a son prematurely, and with no money for a midwife and a lack of proper nutrition and cleanliness, she came down with childbirth fever and died. A baby would only hold him back from his dreams, Malcolm thought, and besides, this one may not even be his, so he left again, and Malcolm's mother, widowed now, raised the baby. She called him Alexander, by which she meant to proscribe a role in life for him, for the name means 'protector of men.'

"Malcolm came in and out of their lives for years, until the woman died; and when he returned to Loameth again, he found Alexander living with a neighbor. The boy was small, still malnourished, but so were most of the villagers. His foster family didn't beat him, and so when he became old enough to think of running away, he didn't. But nor did they love him; like their other children, he was, to them, just another pair of hands to work the farm. The boy was not strong, but he had a capacity for learning that his foster family took advantage of, and as he grew, they taught him to read and write and cipher, preparing him to eventually take over the business end of the farm.

"When Alexander was seven or eight–peasants in those days never kept track of birthdays–Malcolm showed up again, sick with fever; but no one would take him in, so he slept in barns and stole chickens until the farmers chased him out. One night, still feverish, he came for Alexander, and Alexander went willingly; he thought it meant his father needed him, perhaps cared for him. Alexander used his small size and big, innocent eyes to beg on the streets while his father lay shivering and sweating in alleys, and when begging wasn't enough, the kid stole from apple carts and butcher shops. And then Malcolm taught him how to pick pockets. Years later, Alexander came to suspect that had been Malcolm's intention all along for taking him from the farm. But it was too late to run away: the foolish kid had begun to hope.

"Malcolm recovered from the fever, but not his thieving ways, and he found a new scheme: while he ran the shell game, Alexander would weave in and out of the crowd, picking pockets. That was how they survived for a year or more. Too often, Malcolm would get caught at his shell game, but Alexander was seldom caught. Malcolm began to resent his growing dependence on his son. When he drank, Malcolm would accuse Alex of stealing from him, not just money, but stealing away Malcolm's youth, his dreams.

"One night, Malcolm showed up at the hovel that they'd been renting; he had with him another man, less drunk than he was. The man picked Alex up and set him on a tabletop, feeling his arms, inspecting his teeth. Then he shook his head and said, 'No, he ain't worth what you owe me. Pay me in coin.' Malcolm tried to persuade the man that Alex had wonderful skills that would earn back the man's investment many times over. The man said, 'He's so puny he'll be lucky to live another year. What's his name?' Malcolm answered, and the man snorted. 'Alexander is a name for kings, not spindly door rattlers. Tell you what: you give me the money that's hidden in your shoe. I won't give a ha' penny for the kid, but just for a laugh, I want you to change his name to something more appropriate.' Malcolm had the temerity to ask what the man would give him if he did that, and the man said, 'I won't beat you. At least, not tonight.' And so Malcolm agreed, and the man gave Alex a new name: Rumplestiltskin, which means 'little pole rattler.' It's also what goblins are called in some lands.

"They continued to wander, Malcolm and Rumplestiltskin, cheating and stealing, as Malcolm waited for his fortune to change, until one morning after a long drunk, Malcolm decided to be rid of the boy who was holding him back. He'd given up on the idea of selling him, so he pawned him off as an apprentice to two elderly sisters who made their living spinning wool and mixing potions. Rumple didn't want to be left behind and he begged like a dog to go with Malcolm, but eventually he acclimated. For the first time, he had a bed to sleep in, a fireplace to warm him, food and clothes, and a bit of affection from the sisters. And he learned a new trade, one he took to naturally. He had a gift for spinning, the sisters said.

"But who understands the minds of children? Rumple wanted his father so he ran away, taking with him a magic bean the sisters had given him. He found his father being beaten, but the men left Malcolm alone when the little boy intervened. Rumple offered the portal-creating bean as a means of escape in the expectation that, in a new land, they could stay together, and perhaps his father would learn to love him.

"But Malcolm had another idea. He wanted to escape to an entirely other life, one free of responsibilities and expectations: he wanted to be a child again, and the place to turn back the clock was Neverland. He surrendered his son and his soul for never-ending youth and magic. Rumple was returned to the spinsters, who did their best to mend him. He gave up then on his father.

"As he grew to be a man, his skills with the wheel and with bargaining grew. He made a good living, and when he came of age, he decided to take a wife. With the spinsters, he'd had a taste of what a family could be, and he longed for that comfort and affection from a family of his own. With a good income to offer, he went in search of a bride.

"Milah was the youngest of six daughters, two of whom had died in infancy–not uncommon in those days. She was attractive and vivacious and full of dreams, all the things that Rumple was not, and he fell for her. To marry him was to elevate her station, so her family approved the match. Why she agreed–she did have other suitors–he wondered about, but he was too besotted to question his luck. They married after a two-month courtship. He learned a great deal from her, but she couldn't teach him to daydream as she did; he'd seen enough of that, he thought, from Malcolm. He wanted only security in his work, in his village, in her arms. For a year she put her dreams aside to give him that. She told him she was happy; he didn't look closely enough to see otherwise.

"Then came a war and a draft notice, and the foolish spinner saw a chance to overcome his past, make a new reputation for himself, for the family he expected to have, so he went off to become a war hero.

"But the Fates sometimes have plans for us that they fail to inform us of, and for the foolish spinner they had big plans, because of his gullibility. A blind Seer was sent to him in the training camp; she informed him his wife would soon bear him a son. But, she said, 'Your actions on the battlefield will leave him fatherless.' Unimaginative as he was, he took that to mean he would be killed in battle, so in desperation–but not cowardice, Belle, I swear, not cowardice but a determination that his son wouldn't grow up fatherless as he had. In desperation, he thought to desert, but he'd seen what the army did to deserters, so he. . . There was a sledgehammer nearby and he. . . He picked it up and swung it and crippled himself.

"It was a small price to pay to give his son a father, he thought, but the people of the Frontlands didn't see it that way. They reviled him when he came home. The kinder ones simply refused to do business with him or underpaid him when they bought his thread; others beat him, stole from him, shamed him before his wife and child. Rumple could barely provide for his family. His wife refused him the comfort of her arms and her bed, but again, he thought it was a price he was willing to pay to be with his son. He scarcely noticed when Milah would wander off at night.

"Eventually little things started to change: Milah would appear in a new dress, or a new bracelet, or have food on the table that Rumple knew they hadn't the money to buy, sometimes exotic foods that he knew had come off the ships arriving in the port. He didn't question it. He had his son and his spinning and that was sufficient.

"Then he caught her one night, in a tavern, drinking and gambling with pirates. The strange thing was, she looked lovelier, more carefree than he'd ever seen her, and he wanted her, not as a wife any more, because there was no love between them; he'd finally realized that. But watching her there in the tavern, flushed with drink and her flirtations with the pirates, he wanted to bed her. He felt ashamed that that was all he wanted from her. When their son came into the tavern, asking for her, it was her turn to feel ashamed. They went home–to try again, Rumple assumed. When their son was asleep, she allowed him to take her, more roughly than he ever had before, because he was jealous and angry. Her fingernails drew his blood.

"The next day, she was gone. Taken by pirates, he was told, but he knew better. Still, Baelfire was only six and needed his mother, so Rumple went to the docks. He knew the name of the pirate who had her: she'd called it out the night before as she clawed her husband's back.

"Rumple found the ship easily; it was the biggest in the port, and its commander was unmistakable: tall, handsome, young, cocky and dressed in black leather, everything Rumple wasn't. Rumple begged for the return of his wife, but the pirate insisted on dueling for the right to possess her. The army had trained Rumple in sword fighting, but that was many years ago, and he was lame now, still undernourished, and afraid. Too afraid to fight for a woman who didn't love him, even for Bae's sake. The pirate laughed and booted him off the ship.

"The villagers had one more reason now to revile him, but his thread was too good to be completely ignored, so he eked out a living, lonely as it was. He didn't mind, except for Bae; Bae was such an outgoing, athletic kid, and he needed friends. He had them, but they would sometimes take advantage of him, turn on him because of his ridiculous father. But when it was just the two of them, eating supper by the fire, Rumple could forget the villagers, as Bae never could. Neither of them missed Milah. Rumple had told Bae that she had died, and after that, the boy never spoke of her. She had never been a big part of his life anyway.

"When Bae turned twelve–Rumple did celebrate his birthdays–ogres again attempted to conquer the Frontlands. They'd been driven back the first time by a powerful sorcerer that the Duke had gained control over, but the Duke had died and now they had returned. The new Duke didn't seem in a hurry to drive them out, as his father had been: it was rumored that his coffers were being filled by the taxes he imposed upon the duchy to pay the army. Unpaid, unfed, unequipped, the army couldn't buy recruits, so another draft was called, and when the recruiters ran out of healthy young men, they started taking women, and then old men, and finally teenagers. Bae's time was fast approaching. They tried to sneak away in the night. What else could Rumple do, Belle? You're a brave one, like Bae was, but Rumple was never brave or powerful or particularly cunning. Bae would be drafted, to die at the hands of ogres. You know what ogres do to their captives. So Rumple took Bae and ran.

"Still, the recruiters caught them. Rumple tried to beg, but the recruiters forced him to kneel before them and kiss the captain's boot. In three days' time, Hordor would return to take Bae.

"An old beggar, seeing this, came to Rumple's aid, or so Rumple thought. The beggar advised Rumple to gain control over the Dark One, told him how to do it, but Rumple was petrified at the notion, so Zoso told him how he could become the Dark One himself. There was no time left. Rumple took the advice, stole the Dark dagger from the Duke, and he killed the Dark One with it. As the magic transferred into him, Rumple felt an instant rush of strength that drove all fear from him. He could feel the magic surging though his veins and even as his skin changed color and his spinner's fingers became claws, he felt invincible. No one would ever beat him or humiliate him again, and he could now protect Bae. Do you see, Belle, how intoxicating that was? And he had plans to do such good with this magic, not just for himself and Bae but for the village. But as the magic settled into his body and slipped a noose around his mind, he was already irretrievably caught in darkness.

"Beneath the bloody dagger, the old Dark One transformed into a man, into the old beggar Zoso, and Rumple realized he'd been conned. He also realized he was now a murderer. But to protect his son, no action was unjustified. He slew the recruiters. Bae watched in horror and shame. From that moment on, their relationship was irreparably broken. Bae feared his father.'


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"Rumple kept his word to end the war and bring the children home; he performed other acts of charity as well, and he made his and Bae's life very comfortable. But he became increasingly dependent upon magic and increasingly susceptible to the dark forces woven into his brain. Soon the only part of Rumple that remained was his heart. As long as Bae occupied it, the Dark One couldn't get in. And Belle, that has never changed. You and Bae are my shield.

"Rumple couldn't control his rage in those days. Later, he learned how to control the magic and how to bargain with the Dark One, but in the first year, he was as much a destroyer as his predecessors had been.

"Bae was losing him, so Bae called. . . called upon the Reul Ghorm. And oh gods, it was the spinsters all over again–maybe it was the Fates forcing an outcome, for the fairy gave Bae a magic bean to escape the hell their life had become. He thought it was meant as a way for Rumple to escape the Dark One too, and he tried to take Rumple with him, but the Dark One spoke paranoia into Rumple's ear and he clung, sobbing and trembling, to his dagger as Bae fell away from him, falling into the Land without Magic. Falling into this world, alone.

"He went crazy then, Rumple did. He'd done seemingly crazy things before, but always with a calculated purpose, but this time he tore through the village, setting fires, raising whirlwinds, throwing lightning, upturning carts and uprooting trees with a flick of his hand. When he was finished with the town he kept walking, into the forest; more destruction and upheaval; kept walking, village after village, day after day, destroying, and finally when he was worn out he sat down on a mountaintop and shouted until his voice left him, and then, finally, he wept. His rampage had ruined an entire kingdom. For the first time since he'd killed Zoso, he felt cursed.

"When he had nothing left inside, he was too tired to go on, so he built a castle right there on the mountain. He holed up there. I think he wanted to die there. A year, two, he'd been gone; who knows? It doesn't matter when you're immortal and alone. But one morning he awoke to a bird singing and a sharp feeling in his gut that he finally recognized as hope. What if the bean had sent Bae to a land of magic instead? Magic, like water, seeks its own, and Bae was no mage: what if he thought the wrong thought as he fell into the vortex?

"Rumple ran back to the Forest, the village, his cottage, in search of a sign. He tortured the villagers for information, but no one had found a lost kid with brown eyes. He decided to go to the source of all this trouble.

"Rumple summoned the fairy, demanding her assistance, but she told him it was his own fault he'd lost Bae. He badgered her until she inadvertently revealed that perhaps a curse could take him to the Land without Magic.

"I've often doubted whether the fairy expected Rumple to choose Bae over the dagger. It would seem to be the easiest way to destroy the Dark One: send him to a land without magic. But good can't exist without evil, creation can't come about without destruction, white magic can't exist without dark, and the Blue Fairy can't exist without the Dark One. If I knew that, wouldn't she? And would she wish herself out of existence to be rid of me?

"Perhaps the fairy never intended for Rumple to go with Bae; if that's the case, she was very clever, because the loss of his son effectively rerouted Rumple. From that moment on, his only thought was to find his son again. As an unleashed Dark One, he could have wreaked havoc across the realms, but instead he studied magic in all its forms, searching for a way to find Bae. Sending his son away was, you see, a very effective way of manipulating the Dark One, distracting him from the pursuit of chaos. He shut himself away with his potions and his books, coming out into the world only to acquire things that might help him build knowledge and power.

"He found the Seer again, the same one who had pushed him into maiming himself. He took her power–as Zoso had been, she was exhausted from the burden and wanted to be rid of it, though it meant her death. As she died she gave him a gift: she predicted he would find his son again but only through a curse, and that curse would have to be cast by someone else. An inconvenience, he thought; he would now have to wait for the right soul to come along, because only once in a lifetime does a person become so hopeless as to permanently turn his back on humanity, and only when a soul has reached that state is it ready to cast a curse. After a century of study and practice, Rumple gained sufficient control of his Sight to find the person who could cast the curse, and then he had to set the stage for her arrival. He had to make her life miserable from the very start, rob her of all opportunities for love, beginning with her mother. That mother was the miller's daughter, whose story I told you yesterday.

"I told you that Rumple taught Cora magic, so that she would have a purpose in life: a way to achieve the status she craved. Without that purpose, she might have fallen prey to love and kindness, but that purpose gave her the strength to take her own heart out. Only a heartless woman could raise the curse caster. I told you about Daniel, who very nearly distracted Regina from her destiny, until Cora set her on the path.

"What I didn't quite tell you yesterday was that Rumple very nearly was yanked off the path too, by love. Or what he thought was love. I suppose in some ways Cora was like Milah: young and beautiful and headstrong. But as he instructed her, he saw that she was like the Dark One: calculating, manipulative, calloused, and lusting after blood as well as power. She gave him permission to be evil; she thrilled in it. She made him feel accepted, admired, and what man doesn't crave that? And when he touched her soft skin she yielded to him with a passion as violent as his. He thought he loved her and he said so. She said she loved him. She promised to leave Prince Henry for him. They would become the King and Queen of Darkness, wreaking havoc to their hearts' content.

"The space in his heart where he kept his love for Bae fought against this craving, but it was losing ground; he would have surrendered himself to Cora. Though who knows? Perhaps he would have eventually fought his way free of her. It became a moot point, because she chose Henry, whom she could easily control. Perhaps she suspected Rumple would have someday recovered from her. She chose Henry and yanked her heart out so that she would never be swayed by love again, and Rumple retreated to his castle again to lick his wounds. He decided then he would never allow a woman to get under his skin again, and he held to that decision for another century, until yet another Ogres War and a plea for help led him to a lovely, brave, curious and very patient woman who, he discovered, could make him turn away from evil and towards the love he'd always needed.

"But before then. . . before he recovered the flicker of humanity in himself, while he was still reeling from Cora's betrayal, the opportunity for revenge fell into his lap and he simply couldn't. . . Yes, he could have resisted it, but he didn't. When the pirate crossed his path again, he wanted to drive a sword into him, watch his blood gush across the dock, hear him scream for mercy with his last breath. Not because he'd stolen Rumple's wife, but because he'd stolen Bae's mother. But as he plunged his hand into the pirate's chest to yank out his heart, Rumple was interrupted by the woman the pirate had claimed was dead. It wouldn't be the last time that particular lie was used on him.

"Milah offered him a way out of his misery: a magic bean, the last in known existence, the way to Bae. He would have gladly traded his entire fortune and all his magic for it, but then the Dark One spoke in his ear, reminding him she'd betrayed him, humiliated him, abandoned him, much as his father had–and yet that was _acceptable_ to him; he would have paid that price in return for the years of happiness he'd had with Bae. But what was unacceptable, unbearable to him, was that what she had done to him, she'd done to Bae as well. Her actions had left Bae motherless, and it was her fault, her damned wanderlust and lust for a pretty pirate that had brought them to this. If she had been the wife and mother she had vowed to be, none of this would have ever happened. Bae would have grown up to be a. . .merchant maybe, with kids of his own, and maybe with a passel of gray-eyed brothers and sisters and I–when she sneered at me and said she had never loved me, I reached into her chest and pulled out her heart and crushed it to dust, and oh gods, if I hadn't done that, if I hadn't done that. . . !"

"You'd have gotten the bean," Emma's tone is matter-of-fact. "And found Bae. You sold your son out for the satisfaction of revenge."

Belle is on her knees before him now, stroking his hair, drawing him into her chest where he can hide his tears from Charming's daughter. Even here, where he's richer in knowledge as well as money than the lot of them put together, he's still vulnerable to humiliation. Belle lets him hide against her. She smoothes his hair and kisses his cheek and whispers, "It's not over. We'll find him."

No, it's not over: there's more of the story to tell. But she's holding him, loving him, because she doesn't know it all, and he needs her. "Tell me about him," she urges. "This child you would have given up magic for."

"But I didn't," he snaps. He pushes her away. "I clung to the dagger then and after I chose revenge over a real opportunity, I leaned on magic again. The curse that you all think was Regina's, I created it and steered her into casting it."

"Three hundred families torn apart and dragged to a strange land," Emma clarifies.

Belle crumples onto her haunches.

"Yes," he admits.

"Memories clouded over with lies."

"Yes."

"Children and parents pulled apart, some of them thrust into fake families."

"Yes."

"A baby torn from her mother's. . . A newborn baby. . . ." Emma gulps her tears.

"Yes."

Belle is staring at him, shaking her head, her hand covering her mouth.

"To bring you here. Not to end a war or escape a plague. Just to transport you here. Nothing more."

"Yes."

Belle scrambles to her feet and backs away from him. "Jo and me and Adelena," she stutters. "Your curse did this."

"I grew up in foster homes. I thought my parents had dumped me like trash on the side of the road. And all so–what? So I could be your curse breaker?" Emma stands over him. His head is bowed; he's small and old in his kitchen chair with his cane lying at his feet. "So I could fetch your potion for you?" She slaps him. "I'm done being your puppet, you son of a bitch." She walks out, ignoring his call.

"Ms. Swan, I'm sorry! We can fix this, but I need your help."

The front door slams and Belle jerks as though awakened from a spell. She doesn't look back as she starts up the stairs.

"Belle! Where are you going?"

She sounds tired. "I promised you forever, but that doesn't mean it has to be in the same room. I need some time alone. I'm going to sleep in the nursery."

He listens to her footfalls recede. Then a door closes and there's only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking in the dining room.

And magic throbbing in the basement below.

Magic can soften the hardened heart of the savior, bend her toward serving a father in his quest to reunite with his son. With magic he can enter Emma's dreams and pluck the strings of her guilt. It won't be difficult: she once gave up her child too and now will fight witches and dragons to win him back. Surely she can understand how Gold feels.

With magic he can underscore the music Belle listens to as she cooks, plant subliminal nuggets of emotion: tiny and trivial memories of their life together, here and in the old world. So she can't forget, won't turn away from him.

Magic can unravel the memories of the past thirty years, the false memories that it created. Blow away the anger and the grief in one gentle sweep. They don't need divorce papers and custody agreements; they just need magic. Rumplestiltskin owes them that, doesn't he?

He retrieves the ornamental egg from the basement, but instead of hopping in his car to complete his mission, he sits down heavily in the kitchen again, the egg in his lap. He's wrung out emotionally and exhausted physically, and upstairs, the only woman who ever truly loved him is lying alone; she's turned her back on him, as they all have. Like Milah and Bae, Belle is ashamed of him.

This. He rolls the egg between his hands, feeling the magic hum. Long ago, this power seeped into his soul and blackened it; when he awoke from the curse, magicless, he wasn't free: magic had left its stain. Using magic to manipulate others' dreams and thoughts is just a more impressive version of the shell game. Conned emotion is less than worthless. Love must be given freely or it's not love at all.

Magic con games are not the way. As clearly as if she were standing here, speaking to him, he can hear Belle say that the return of magic will not result in the return of Baelfire–or her. But the return of his humanity might. Has he been wrong all along: is forgiveness the highest magic?

If it's not too late. Is there a limit to the patience of love?

He carries the egg to his den and locks it in his safe, and then he reaches for his last shred of strength, which he finds not in three centuries of accumulated knowledge or power, but in fragile, newborn hope. Listing to the left, he drags himself upstairs and knocks at the door of the nursery.

He read it somewhere: _Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; k__nock, and the door will be opened to you. _Powerful words of hope.

He draws in a breath and leans heavily on his cane, waiting.

The door opens.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

He stands in the doorway with his hands gripping his cane because he's afraid to touch her. He wants to blurt a request for forgiveness but he can't bring out the words. The Dark One never apologizes, never explains, and though much of Rumplestiltskin has been uncovered tonight, some of the Dark One remains, so Gold just stands there, ashamed and prideful at the same time, waiting for her to have mercy and give him a clue.

She stands aside to grant him permission to enter. "It's peaceful here." Belle has made a nest for herself in the rocking chair and has opened the window that overlooks the garden. She leaves the door open in invitation as she returns to her blankets. She's wearing a nightgown and her hair is damp from a recent shower. A drop of water slips from her hair to her temple and he longs to kiss it away, but now is not the time; there may never again be an appropriate time for such intimacies.

She continues, "I would have loved to sit here in the evenings, after her bath, and rock her to sleep. It's a lovely nursery, Rumple."

"I know you need rest. I won't keep you–" he begins awkwardly.

"You'd better," she warns. "I intend to keep you." She holds out her hand and he comes in, lowers himself onto the ottoman at her feet and accepts her hand. With that simple gesture she lifts the weight of two worlds from his shoulders.

"So the curse was the secret project you were working on in your tower, in the castle. Why didn't you tell me then?"

"You would have tried to stop me."

"Maybe. Probably. I would have insisted there had to be another way. Or at least, that your curse didn't have to take an entire town with it. Just those whose lives were miserable in the forest."

"The town was Regina's idea." He shrugs. "I didn't care, as long as I got what I wanted. I told myself everything would be fixed when the curse broke."

"I never would have prevented you from looking for your son." She leans forward to search his face. "I won't leave you. Just give me time. Don't push me away; don't pull yourself away from me."

"Thank you, Belle." He kisses her palm.

She looks out into the night. "The curse treated me better than most. Regina meant to torture you, but she gave me a comfortable life here. Good friends. Nice home. I was happy with Jo. He'll always be my friend. Yours too, I hope."

"That's my wish as well."

"It's Adelena. I know she never existed, but I still feel her. I need time to let go. Time to grieve." She looks back at him. "I think a funeral would help all three of us."

He clears his throat. "That. . . Yes. I can arrange that." His eyes burn and he blinks hard.

"Leave me here tonight. In the morning I'll be better, but tonight I'd like to. . . ." She removes her hand from his and rests it on her belly.

He rises slowly. He's so tired. "If you need anything. . . ."

"I'll call."

He walks away.

"Rumple?" When he pauses, she tries to smile for him. "I understand."

It's the opening he's been waiting for. He finally dares to ask, "Can you forgive me?"

"I do."

"See you in the morning, sweetheart."

She calls to him as he steps out into the hall. "It's a lovely nursery, Rumple. Thank you."

"I love you, Belle." He pulls the door nearly closed, leaving it open just an inch. Just in case she needs him.

* * *

><p>His doorbell rings. "Go away," he mumbles. His head is throbbing from the lack of sleep and besides, his first appointment isn't for another two hours. When he doesn't respond to the bell, the visitor resorts to pounding on the door, loud enough to wake Belle–hell, loud enough to wake Boston. His slippers scuff the carpet as he drags himself away from the coffee pot to the front door. He peers through the stained glass, then jerks the door open. The vitriolic string of cuss words he was preparing withers on his tongue: the savior has returned.<p>

In her uniform of red leather and denim, she shifts from foot to foot, but her face is set as she meets his eyes. It's not accusation or anger she's showing him, but resolve. She doesn't bother with niceties but rather jumps right into her reason for coming. "That other favor I owe you, for telling me how to save Henry." He notices her phrasing: not "how to break the curse." That's a distant second to her; her son comes first. He's counted on that: she should understand what he's done, then. If it had been Henry falling into the portal, she'd have done no less than Rumple did. He raises his eyebrows, waiting and counting on that.

"You want me to find Baelfire."

"Yes."

The corner of her mouth flicks up in an ironic smile. "Good thing I just happen to be a former bail bonds person and a current law enforcement officer. Or did you write that into the curse too?"

"I was farsighted, but not that farsighted."

She juts her chin toward the foyer. "Let me in, then. I'll need a physical description, pictures, anything you might have with his fingerprints."

He stands aside, holding the door. "Won't you come in, Sheriff?"

"I smell coffee," she hints as she brushes past him. She takes notice of his silk pajamas and slippers. "How about if I pour us both a cup while you get dressed?"

He starts up the stairs to his bedroom. "Make yourself at home, Ms. Swan."

She glances back at him. "Henry. That's why I'm here. I was going to say 'screw you' last night, and when I told Mary Margaret what you told me, I figured she'd be coming after you with Granny's crossbow. Oh, she was plenty pissed all right, but after talking all night about what we should do to you and Regina, she said, 'Remember one thing. If there hadn't been a curse, we wouldn't have Henry.' So we decided to let you live."

He thinks about this, then nods. "Eggs Benedict is on the menu this morning, if you'd care to start the hollandaise." He grips the railing as he climbs the stairs. He has gained the savior's tolerance, if not her forgiveness. Understanding is a powerful magic.

* * *

><p>"All right. Let's get down to it," Emma says around a bite of cantaloupe. She slides a pocket-sized notebook from her jacket, clicks her pen and begins to write in a spidery scrawl he can't read, replete with abbreviations that mean something only to her. "Description: male, Caucasian, I presume?"<p>

"Yes."

"Age?"

"I'm not sure. When I lost him, he was fourteen."

"And that was when?"

"Two hundred sixty-one years ago."

She frowns as she sips coffee to buy time. "Uhm, what's the average male lifespan back in the Enchanted Forest?"

"He's alive," Gold says quickly and firmly. He has to be, or else nothing Rumplestiltskin has done in life matters.

"Okay." Emma poises her pen again. "Hair color?"

"Dark brown, almost black. A bit curly, especially when the weather's humid. Dark brown eyes. Bit of a pug nose." He stands. "I have a picture." He hesitates, but as likely as this is to blow up in his face, he has to tell them. "But. . . there's an easier way. I came prepared, you see. To this world."

"Of course. I mean, you wouldn't have spent all those years planning the curse without figuring out the most important part." Emma's frown vanishes and she pops another bite of melon into her mouth. She makes a "go on" motion with her hand.

"I'll be right back." It's now or never. Emma will fulfill her end of their bargain, he's sure, even after he explains the rest of his plan, but Belle–she's been through so much in just the past two days. Her love is true, but that doesn't mean she will put up with his machinations, especially this one. His throat tightens with the dread that robbed him of sleep last night: if she backs him into a corner and makes him choose between finding Bae or staying here, magicless, with her. . . .

In his study he retrieves two of his most precious possessions. He sets them carefully into a box, which he rests on his left hip so that his right hand can continue to carry his cane. Taking a hard swallow, he makes his way back into the kitchen.

The women are talking about hamburgers. He nearly laughs at the absurdity. Emma jumps up to take the box from him. "Here, let me help with that." Belle clears a space on the table and Gold unpacks the box.

"Oh, I know that," she remarks as he lifts the globe. "You've had that in your study for years. I always thought it was odd: just the outlines of the continents. No details."

"That's because. . . because magic supplies the details, sweetheart." He rests his hand protectively on the globe and waits for her reaction.

"I don't remember seeing this in the Dark Castle," she says slowly. A light enters her eyes; she's beginning to figure things out and she doesn't like what she's figuring.

"I fought a dragon for this one," Emma says, picking up the egg.

"What?" Belle exclaims.

"Please, ladies, be seated. The story I told you last night–there's more."

Emma is still holding the egg. "It's vibrating, like it's alive."

He raises his eyebrows. "You can feel that?"

"Yeah. What's going on?"

"You and I must have a long talk about that sometime. You may have more power than you realize," he studies her. "But first things first." He reaches into his pants pocket for a brass key, with which he unlocks the clasp on the egg. As the halves fall open, he removes the contents: a vial filled with a fuchsia-colored liquid. "So that's what True Love looks like," Emma muses. "Not much of it, is there?"

"It's rare," Gold admits.

"Beautiful. What did you call it? 'True Love'?" Belle reaches for the vial and he allows her to hold it. "Lovely. Great name for a perfume."

"No, Belle. It's literally True Love."

She scowls and hastily sets the vial back in the egg as if it had burned her. "Magic," she spits. "A love potion you brought over from the Enchanted Forest. But what good is it here?"

He covers her hand with his. "It's more than a potion, Belle. It's magic itself."

"What the fu–" Emma yelps.

"I don't understand."

Gold nods sadly. "Yeah, Belle, you do. When I pour this," his finger strokes the vial, "into the waters of Lake Nostros, magic will enter this world."

"Crap," Emma hisses. "You've got to be jerkin' our chain."

"No." Belle provides the answer. "He's not joking. He spent many long hours shut up in his tower, in the Dark Castle, and this was what he told me he was working on. A power purer and stronger than any other source of magic. But during my time with him, he didn't find it."

"It was only after you'd gone that I realized I had the ingredients at my fingertips all along. This, Ms. Swan, I made from a lock of your father's hair combined with a lock of your mother's." He smiles at Belle. "But had I known, I could have made it from our hair."

Despite her apprehension, Belle can't resist a small smile. "I told you, didn't I? What we had was real." He looks alarmed at her use of the past tense, but she hastens to add, "What we have now is just as true. But Rumple, bringing magic here, where it doesn't belong–"

"I have to. It's how I'll find Bae. Once I have magic, this globe will locate him for me." His voice drops. "And enable me to fix what I did to him."

"Rumple, no," Belle pleads. "What magic does to you–don't you remember? It's what drove him from you to begin with. It can't fix relationships. Only love can. Honesty, regret, forgiveness. From everything you told me about him, that's what you must give him and that's what you need in return."

"No, no," he blurts, "magic will take care of everything. Magic broke us; it'll fix us. I can set back the clock, Belle, make him a child again, to when he loved me, before he started hating me."

"No, Rumple, you can't. You'll only be robbing him of part of his life and cheating yourself of the chance at an honest relationship with him. And he'll fear you all over again when he finds out you used magic to manipulate him. Didn't you always tell me magic can't compel someone to love?"

"But I owe him the happy childhood my cowardice took from him."

"No," Emma interrupted. "You owe him the truth. And the right to decide for himself." Her eyes glaze as she admires the vial. "If magic could erase all these years apart from my parents, hell, yeah, I'd take it, but it would be a lie. The life I'd have with them might be happy, but it would be a lie. As much as my childhood sucked, it was mine, and I don't want a redo, not really. Listen, Gold, at least give reality a try, huh? Your kid may surprise you."

"But without magic, what chance do I have of finding him in a world of five billion people?"

"Give me a chance to surprise you. With the Internet, my connections and my know-how, I can work magic of my own. I've done it before. Hell, do you know how long it took Henry to find me? One month. And he's ten. Imagine what I can do with all my years of experience."

"Give Emma a chance, Rumple, please."

"It's why you brought me in on this to begin with, right? Deep down, it's how you want this to go. No magic, no cheating. One month, Gold. I promise I'll work on it every spare minute. Pull every string I've got, and that's a lot. If I don't have your boy in thirty days, we'll do it your way, magic globe and all, and I won't squawk. Deal?"

"I'll help too, whenever I'm not working on law cases," Belle offers. "I'm a social networking maven. That'll be my angle, Emma. You use the law enforcement tools and I'll use Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn–we'll cover both ends of the research spectrum. One month, Rumple. That's a reasonable request, isn't it?"

Their eyes are bright with excitement as they stare at him expectantly.

Belle has caught him off-guard. He anticipated pushback from her, but what he hadn't anticipated was this offer, and certainly not its importance to her. He kicks himself mentally: he should've known she'd want to help find Bae, and he should've guessed she'd want to do it through research. To use her special skills to help, of course it makes her happy. She needs that now: she's lost her child and there's nothing she can do about it but bury her hopes. But perhaps what she can do is to restore her beloved's lost child.

He's waited so long. He's planned every detail and so far, his plan has succeeded. If he released magic this morning, he could be on the road tomorrow and be reunited with Bae tomorrow night, perhaps. Doesn't he owe it to Bae to get to him as soon as possible–and to bring as many options as possible to offer Bae in compensation for–

To buy Bae's forgiveness. In all honesty, that's what he's planned to do. Belle's right. Bae has too much integrity to be bought off.

But Rumplestiltskin has nothing else to offer.

The women are staring at him, eyes shining, smiles bright. He hasn't seen Belle so excited since she announced her pregnancy.

He nods. "One month." He replaces the vial in the egg and relocks it. The women cheer and high-five each other.

Belle has been turning his plans inside out since the day he met her. Why should today be different? But when she leans over to kiss him, a month doesn't seem like too high a price to pay to make her a part of his family.

"Now." Emma clicks her pen again. "That picture you said you have?"


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

His first appointment is due in thirty minutes, but Storybrooke's small enough he can drive downtown in five minutes, so Gold hurries down to the shop with the sheriff in tow. He's doing this in response to her question, "It's a long shot, probably ridiculous to even try, but I've learned when you're searching for someone, don't rule anything out until it rules itself out. You got anything that we might get a DNA sample from? Baby teeth, hairbrush, clothes?"

Dove is already in the workroom, cleaning the keys on a 1923 Underwood. When he looks up to greet them, Gold notices dark circles under the man's eyes. "Hey, Mr. G."

"Hey, Josiah," Gold casts a quick glance at Emma. He'd like to ask how Dove is doing, and especially, whether Dove plans to accompany Belle on the appointment with Archie. But with the sheriff here, Josiah would give a polite, vague response. Gold grabs another idea: "Hey, would you like to come to dinner tonight? I don't know what Belle's got on the menu, but it's guaranteed to be good."

Emma cocks an eyebrow. Gold supposes the invitation seems odd to her, as socially awkward as if Kathryn Nolan had invited Mary Margaret Blanchard for Sunday brunch. What she doesn't know, Gold muses, is that the crotchety pawnbroker needs to hang on to the one friend he has in this world.

"Sounds good," Dove says.

"Ms. Swan, perhaps you'd find this typewriter interesting," Gold suggests. "It supposedly was owned by Woodrow Wilson's private secretary."

"You're gonna open your safe, huh, and you want a little privacy," Emma surmises. "Go ahead. I'll wait here."

Gold pauses for just a moment when he enters the showroom. It's only been three days, and nothing's changed in the shop, but he misses the place. The next time he stands behind that cash register, he may be a father again. The thought makes his heart pound as he opens the safe and brings down, to clutch to his chest, a dull brown wool cloth. If Regina had noticed this cloth in the list of items he'd written into the curse to have brought over from the castle, she probably had chalked it up to the touch of madness that imprisonment had caused him. Only three people in this world would know what this cloth meant to him; now there would be a fourth.

He returns to the workroom, where Emma is admiring a shield that once belonged to Sir Lancelot. His voice quiet, he presents the cloth to her.

"Bae's?" She handles the cloth with reverence.

"It's a shawl. I wove it for his mother, but she wrapped him in it right after he was born. We kept him bundled in it until he started to crawl."

Emma folds it carefully. "I'll get it back to you ASAP." And she's gone.

Gold starts to inquire about Dove's welfare, but his cell phone rings: Belle's informing him his first appointment has arrived early.

He groans as he ends the call. "Josiah?"

"Yes, Mr. G.?"

"Bring the dominoes tonight, huh?"

Dove flashes a grin. "Sure thing."

* * *

><p>The hired driver reaches for the door to the back seat of the Caddy and assists Belle in as Dove stands by awkwardly. Dove casts a guilty glance at the driver's seat, but Gold whispers, "Let someone else do the driving today. It's traditional for the family to ride in the back."<p>

"Family," Dove echoes. "Thanks, Mr. G." He and Gold seat themselves on either side of Belle.

They're dressed in formal black, all three of them, except for a splash of white on their collars–a sprig of baby's breath, requested by Josiah as a reminder of the happiness the baby brought them. Each of them carries an object, an offering that will be laid at the headstone: a Nerf ball from Josiah, a hair bow from Belle, a wooden ducky Gold has removed from the nursery wall.

Leaning against the door, Gold is withdrawn, tired and anxious, because last night he dreamt of this funeral, dreamt of burying this child-that-would-have-been. But when his dream self peered into the casket, the body he found was not an infant's: it was the teenage Bae's. Hearing Gold cry out, Belle had come running from the nursery. She had awakened him, taken him in her arms, and in a moment of disoriented weakness he'd shared his fear with her. In the morning as soon as he awoke he was furious with himself for upsetting her, but his anger dissipated when he felt a warmth pressed against his back. Belle had slept beside him, holding him through the night.

She's chatting now with Josiah, speculating on what the child might have become, what she might have looked like. Josiah persists in his claim that the baby would have been a boy. Gold wonders if this talk is healthy, but Archie has told him that in the healing of the heart there are no rules.

"She would have loved books and cars and antiques," Belle says, "that's a given. But she would've found something of her own too, something to set herself apart from her family. A child needs to feel unique, special. Was it like that with Bae?"

Gold shoots her an annoyed look: why is she forcing him to remember his nightmare?

"When we were in the Dark Castle, you had a lot of drawing supplies in his room," Belle continues. "He's the artist of the family, yes?"

"His mother," Gold mutters. "She taught him."

"And you taught him to spin, I'm sure."

"Yeah."

"Every teenager has to develop his own identity. What was his special thing?"

"He, uh," Gold struggles against the lump in his throat. "He was an athlete. No tree was too tall for him to climb, no ram too mean for him to ride. Would've been a soccer player if he'd grown up here."

"_Is_ a soccer player," Belle insists. "_Is_. He's here and we'll find him."

Gold accepts her tutelage. "Is."

"Holy cow," Dove interrupts. "Look!" They've arrived at the cemetery and the chauffeur is pulling up behind the hearse, but they can't see the open grave or the casket for all the people crowded around.

"The whole town's here, looks like," Dove comments. Gold doesn't find this unexpected: the Doves had many friends. As the three of them approach the grave, the crowd parts for them. Handshakes, hugs and gentle words are offered to Josiah and Belinda/Belle. . .and, to his surprise, to Gold/Rumplestiltskin. Snow is the first, pressing her cheek against Gold's: no one else is so bold, but there are plenty of handshakes and soothing words.

The unexpected kindness cracks him open. He yanks his sunglasses from his coat pocket and hides behind them. He would stand apart, lest the town might catch him sniffling, but Belle doesn't permit his isolation. They stand together at the foot of the grave, her hand clasped in his, her strength bearing him up and his, her. Dove stands at Belle's left side and Archie, whom they've asked to lead the service, stands at Gold's right.

Archie speaks of the joy children bring, not only to their parents but to their community. He speaks of the miracle of love and the magic of hope, and he reminds the listeners that these, once created, cannot be uncreated; they endure outside of time.

Then each of Adelena's parents voice their farewells in their own, individual ways. Josiah reads a poem, "The Barefoot Boy," and Belle sings a song, "Carry." Leaning on his cane, Gold reads a storybook, _The Velveteen Rabbit._

The would-have-been parents leave their mementos–the ball, the bow and the ducky–on the casket. Gold tucks his book under his arm, gathers his cane and Belle's hand, ready to walk back to the car, but a rustling draws his attention back to the grave. Emma has stepped forward to lay a daisy on the casket.

* * *

><p><strong>AN. "Carry" is a Tori Amos song. A very short chapter, but the mood is about to shift, so I wanted to leave some space to decompress. Coming up: Three centuries of waiting prove to be too much for Rumple. **

**Thank you, Cynicsquest, for saying just the right thing to kick-start the next act. You'll see the result in the next chapter.**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

They haven't buried a child, really. They've buried their own innocence.

Even Gold, who has committed many a crime in Storybrooke, had possessed innocence of a sort as long as he lived under the ignorance of the curse. After his awakening nearly a year ago, he'd kept himself so busy executing his plans–and so emotionally distracted with Belinda/Belle and the hope of bringing Adelena and Bae into his life–that he had managed to avoid confronting his past. But as he sprinkles a handful of soil onto the casket, it all comes crashing down on him. What a selfish, single-minded, bloody-minded ass he's been.

He climbs into the backseat of the Cadillac behind Belle. Later. He'll deal with his stupidity, his cruelty, his selfishness later. After he's won Bae back. He's come too far, he's too close now to risk getting sidetracked by remorse. Later, he'll let the softer feelings in.

"Thank you," Belle says, resting her head on his shoulder. Her gratitude makes him feel like a total bastard.

* * *

><p>Each night at dinner Belle fills him in on the progress in the search for Baelfire: few significant leads from law enforcement; lots of leads, but all false, from social media. Belle's energy and enthusiasm increase with each day, however; she's busier than she's ever been, between assisting with Gold's legal research and hunting for Bae, but the activity seems to be good for her.<p>

Not so much so for Gold as he runs back and forth between his office and the courthouse, and as he crosses another day off the kitchen calendar each night.

He has the word of a Seer that he will be reunited with Bae, but he's learned the hard way not to take information gained through Second Sight at face value. And then there's that pesky codicil the red-headed Seer put on her vision: "the boy will be your undoing." Still, he grits his teeth and soldiers on: he'll take the reunion at any price.

* * *

><p>As soon as he's shown the last client of the day to the door, he crosses off another block on the calendar: Day Twenty-One.<p>

He trudges into the kitchen to start supper. In the center of the table is a white box that FedEx delivered today. He raises a suspicious eyebrow at it, then turns his back on it as he pre-heats the oven. Opening the refrigerator, he throws a quick glance over his shoulder toward the box, as though expecting it to have moved. He lays out four tilapia fillets on a baking tray, seasons them, and as he slides the tray into the oven he scowls at the box. He keeps shooting eye daggers at it as he tosses a salad and heats up some dinner rolls. At last, with the meal cooking on its own, he has no more excuses; he tears the lid off the white box.

It looks kind of like a flat Etch-a-Sketch.

He picks the thing up and runs his fingers around its sides and back. He can't find the control knobs. There's a slit in one end but no on/off button. He growls; the store has sent him a defective device, obviously. He turns the box upside down and shakes it in search of the instruction manual: again, clearly, he's been cheated. He shakes the device but nothing happens. He grabs one end of the device and is about to fling it into the trash can when it clicks and its face lights up into quite a lovely, spacey picture of clouds and stars. The device shows him the date and time. Nice, now he's getting somewhere. He sits down at the table, holding the device delicately with both hands, careful not to smudge it. He stares at its face, waiting for something to happen. The clock changes but nothing else does.

He waits and the clock rolls over and over: five minutes, ten. The screen goes dead, but he's got this under control: there's a little black slider that he's figured out is the on/off switch. He slides it and sure enough, the screen lights up again.

He takes the rolls out of the oven and sits back down with the device, holding it like the Crown Jewels. The clock rolls over and over and the screen keeps dying, requiring repeated restarts. Fifteen minutes, twenty. The cosmic clouds are pretty enough but gods are they boring after twenty-five minutes. He growls at the infernal contraption as he takes the tilapia out of the oven.

"Rumple, I'm home!"

He jumps out of his seat. He hadn't even heard the front door open. He shoves the damn machine into the box and covers it with a dishcloth. As she strolls into the kitchen, he's setting the table, his features smooth as if he hasn't a care in the world. . . as if he hasn't just wasted four hundred dollars and twenty-five minutes on a piece of junk.

Belle kisses his cheek and brings a pair of tumblers down from the cupboard and fills them with iced tea–more ice than tea, but he doesn't mind: she has a thing for ice. As she sets the tumblers on the table, she notices the misplaced dishtowel and snatches it up to toss it into the sink. And then she sees the white box. "For me?" She's so delighted he can't bring himself to tell her the truth.

"I didn't get time to wrap it," he mumbles.

"An iPad!" She thanks him with a hug that's worth four hundred dollars and, forgetting all about supper, she sits down to play with the damn thing, her fingers skimming the surface of the device and making colors burst into life. "Thank you, darling! This is so much easier than my laptop. I promise to put it to good use. Let me just update my Facebook page. . . ." And in a few slashes of her finger across the screen, she's totally absorbed in a world as confusing and nonsensical as Wonderland.

He realizes he's made a mistake when he learns she can eat with one hand while operating the iPad with the other. He realizes he's made a _colossal_ mistake when she takes the damn thing to bed with them.

* * *

><p>"Where did all these kids come from?" Gold mutters as he and Belle slide into a booth farthest from the entrance. They're celebrating–when Belle asked the reason, Gold winked at her: "Because we can" (but really, because it's Day Twenty-Nine and in two days he can unleash magic in this world). He's treating her to dinner at Granny's and a movie, but it seems that everywhere they go, there are parents and children.<p>

Intellectually, of course he knows there are a lot of children in Storybrooke: on his desk at home, he's got a stack of file folders a mile high and each one contains the story of a child. But it's been the parents he's been dealing with, only the parents: he seldom sees the children except briefly in the courtroom or in the wallet photos some of the parents thrust under his nose, in the desperate hope that if he can only see how special their children are, he'll want to help them. . . as if he can just wave a magic gavel and poof, all the custody disputes will disappear.

He never before noticed just how many kids there are in Storybrooke. It makes him nervous. Worse, when some of the adults insist upon bringing their tots up to Gold's table for introductions, it reminds him he must share the blame for the mess these families are in. Only four people in the world know this, and the one most likely to try to use his guilt against him has vanished from Storybrooke, but he squirms anyway when face to face with the innocent victims of his and Regina's curse.

Belle understands. She works her own sweet magic on these families, ushering them along without offending them. Still, it's only in the darkness of the movie theater that he relaxes.

* * *

><p>The women beat him to the punch. On Day Thirty-One, they ambush him in his own kitchen as he groggily seeks out the coffee pot.<p>

"We're close, I can feel it in my bones," Emma says, pouring him a cup of coffee. "And believe you me, after ten years of tracking down bail jumpers, my bones know what they're talking about."

"I have five thousand followers on my Twitter page," Belle says as she presents him with an omelet. "All over the world, parents of missing children are spreading the word for us. Someone out there will come forward any day now. A neighbor, a co-worker, a teacher, a doctor–someone out there knows Bae. It's just a matter of putting two and two together." She sits down at his right and Emma seats herself at his left.

"No," he growls. "No extensions. It's been a month. We do it my way now."

"I haven't even got the age progessions yet," Emma interjects. "Look, Gold, you've got to allow that time. Since we have no idea how old Bae is, I had to ask the artist to do progressions for every three years from age fourteen to age forty-two. Come on now, that's nine pictures. It's gonna take time. You know how hard it is when all you've got to go on is a three-hundred-year-old charcoal sketch drawn by an amateur?"

"And you've said yourself, you have no idea how magic will interact with the natural elements of this world," Belle says.

"And what if Regina show up?" Emma adds.

He pauses in mid-bite.

Emma presses her case. "You know she won't stay gone long. Not as long as Henry's here. Considering how much damage she did here _without_ her powers, what do you suppose she'd do if she was fully charged again?"

"I can handle her," Gold argues.

"What if she comes after me again?" Belle lets the chilly question hang in mid-air.

Gold opens, closes, re-opens his mouth. "I'll protect you, Belle. I swear I will."

"I know you want to," she says fondly. "I know you'll try, but you can't be with me 24/7."

"She's not the only one you need to worry about, Gold," Emma reminds him. "There are other magicians here, right? What chance do the normal people have against them?"

Belle picks up the thread. "What would happen to Ruby if magic came here? What might the fairies do with their powers restored? With you being distracted with searching for Bae, Blue might take that as an opportunity to wage war on everyone she considers evil."

"She can have the town and welcome. Magic will show me where Bae is, and then you and I are out of here. We're not coming back."

"You thought like that before, but not any more," Belle insists. "You've changed, Rumple. You care what happens to the people here. In the past month, I've watched you change as you've helped these families reunite. You can't abandon them. You have too good a heart to do that."

"One more month, Gold. Just thirty more days," Emma bargains. "We'll find your boy. Have a little faith in your girl and me. Give us one more month and I'll owe you whatever favor you want. You say I'm 'the savior'—well, a favor from me's got to be worth something, right? One more month is all. Thirty days to do this the right way, so no one will get hurt."

"So you can tell Bae when you see him that you really have left magic behind for good," Belle finishes.

"Besides, you've still got eleven cases on the docket. You're not going to dump those kids, are you?" Emma pushes. "There's the Sellers triplets, the Hymel kids, Kyle and Keri Klemperer, Grace Hatter–who else, Belle?"

"Micky Nesmith, Peter and Adrienne Wilcott, the Bakers' two-year-old–"

"Stop!" Gold pushes away from the table so fast his chair topples. He doesn't pick it up. "All right, one more month, but that's all. I want your word, both of you, that if you haven't found Bae by the first of next month, you'll get out of my way. Let Red and Blue and Purple Polka Dot be damned. If you can't find Bae in thirty days, magic will. I'm going to work." He storms from the pink house.

Belle knows better than to remind him his work is now in his study. She cancels his morning appointments, and when she goes looking for him to bring him lunch, she finds him in the back of the shop with Jo, tinkering with a 1909 Kinetoscope. They're deep in a debate about two people Belle's never heard of: she's not sure if they're politicians or generals or what, but Gold is adamantly in favor of Casillas and Dove is just as vociferous about Buffon. She sets her picnic basket on the counter and tiptoes out, leaving them to their debate: she's already scored her victory for the day.

* * *

><p>Day Forty.<p>

He's been shut up in his study all morning, writing and rewriting the custody agreement he'll present to the Wilcotts and their rivals the Isleys tomorrow. It's complicated by the fact that in the Enchanted Forest, the Wilcotts were serfs and the Isleys, their masters, and those bitter feelings have carried over, although in Storybrooke the families are both solidly middle class.

Belle has been at the sheriff's office all day, working alongside Emma in the search for Bae. As a thank-you, at lunchtime Gold calls Granny's and asks Ruby to deliver them lunch. Throughout the day, he keeps his phone in his pocket, hoping it will ring with good news, the reward for the women's efforts.

At one p.m. it finally rings. The caller wants to know if he's satisfied with his phone service provider. He chucks his cell phone into the trash can.

He spends the rest of his day in meetings. He wonders how the women are doing. He wonders how the shop is doing. He wonders if France's win in the World Cup was just a fluke.

He wonders which city he'd be in right now, if he hadn't let the women talk him into one more month, and more importantly, whether Bae is looking for him too.

After the last client leaves, he opens the safe, then opens the ornamental egg just to make sure the vial is still there, still safe. It is. He sets it on his desk and watches a beam of sunlight light the potion from behind, so that it glows.

Through the open window he hears her car pull into the drive. Hastily he replaces his treasure in the safe.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22 

Day Forty-Two.

"When the custody battles die down, I'd like you to represent me," Belle says casually as they're folding the laundry. She smiles her little pursed-mouth smile at him. "Of course, I may have to pay you in installments: I know how expensive your rates are."

"Represent you?" He's caught only half of what she's said: he's distracted by the pair of pink silk panties he's folding. Or attempting to fold. He blushes and sets his awkward attempt aside, reaches into the basket for another garment and what his hand, with a dirty little mind of its own, latches onto this time is a bra. Okay, at least he has some notion of how this can be folded.

"Well, _us_, really." She's folding his boxers without the least bit of embarrassment, and why not? She's been folding his underwear for years. "Jo and I want to file for divorce."

"Divorce?" he echoes, letting the bra fall into his lap. Hope surges in his chest: is this a step forward for his relationship with Belle?

"We've been talking about it with Archie. We think it would give us a sense of closure. Besides, even though it was a sham marriage, the property we own together is real. A divorce might simplify some matters, you know, financially."

"Yes, it might."

"Would you handle it for us? It should be pretty simple. We've already decided what to do with the house and the cars."

He attempts the bra again. "Yes, I can do that. I'll start the paperwork tomorrow."

"We can have him over for dinner again," Belle dimples. "I bet you don't hear that every day: 'Honey, let's have my husband over for dinner so we can plan our divorce.'"

He chuckles. "No, I suppose not." He brightens as a new thought pops into his imagination. In the old country, of course surnames were unheard of, but here they're part of the landscape. In his mind he tests the sound of the name "Belle Gold." Two strong single syllables. Firm, decisive. Belle Gold. The words create a beautiful, shining image. He clears his throat. "Have you thought about changing your last name?"

She shrugs. "I know it's not really my name, but for convenience sake, I'll go back to French."

Coyly, her bra in his hands, he glances across the laundry at her. "Perhaps someday you'd like to change it again?"

Now she finally blushes. "I think I would. Someday." She rescues her bra from his fumbling hands.

He has a new date to write into his calendar. An uncontested divorce takes 60 days to process in this state.

* * *

><p>While Belle's in the shower, Gold grits his teeth and attempts, one more time, to conquer the iPad. He's watched Belle often enough by now to know what to do. He jabs at the power slider, gets the contraption turned on, swipes his finger across the "slide to unlock" control, and suddenly all these little pictures come flying at him, like tiny sigils. He's versed in all the languages of magic: surely he can translate Apple-ese. He stabs at the sigil called Photo Booth and jerks back when a huge eye blinks at him. Hastily he pokes another sigil; now he discovers it's 6 a.m. and 56 degrees in Paris. He breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, something useful he can do with the iPad–that is, if Bae is a Frenchman.<p>

The bed dips and her hair drips on his pajama shirt as Belle sneaks up behind him. She leans against his back, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her arm snakes around his so that she can touch the screen. "Let me show you."

His pride would have him denying the need for instruction, except her breath tickles his ear and she's pressing so close against his back. Her hand rides on top of his as she guides him. "These are called apps. This is a browser. It lets you get to the Internet. All you have to do is touch it; just the lightest touch will turn it on. You see? You don't have to poke it. Just rest your fingertip there, softly, very softly, and it will respond to you instantly."

Her breath flutters his hair. Through his pajama shirt he can feel her warmth, her softness, the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the vibration as she speaks. "When you're ready for the next step, just give the screen a little flick with the tip of your finger, just the tip, slowly, easily, and it will respond to you. The page will move for you, up or down, any way you like. If you get too forceful or impatient, you see, you'll lose control of it. Slow and gentle. Learn how it responds to your touch before you try to speed things up."

"Uhm, yeah. . . ." He gulps.

"Don't be nervous. You won't hurt it. It responds to a delicate touch, but if you do get carried away and move too fast, you won't break it. You'll just lose your place and have to start over. Go ahead, darling. Run your finger down, like this." She grasps his index finger and strokes it down the screen. Her damp cheek presses against his and as her hand moves his, her cheek rubs against him. Her hair is wet and warm.

"You might be awkward at first, but soon enough you'll learn how to manipulate it with just your fingertips. You're already at an advantage over other men, because of your spinning." She lifts his hand and runs her fingertips across his. "You have such strength in your hands, and yet"–she runs his fingertips across her lips–"your fingers are so sensitive." She releases his hand, but before he can complain, both her arms slide around him and her fingers open the top button on his pajama shirt. "It won't take you long at all to know just how much pressure to exert. . . and when. . . and where." With each pause, another button opens.

She pushes the iPad off his lap. "Turn around, Rumple."

He can't speak, but he certainly can turn around.

She's not wearing pajamas. Or a nightgown. Or a towel.

* * *

><p>He's smiling when he awakens the next day, even after he glances at the clock and realizes he's overslept. Schedule be damned: he'll skip breakfast today so that he doesn't have to disturb his beloved, her head pillowed on his chest, her left hand sprawled across his arm.<p>

A strip of pale skin encircles the third finger of her left hand. He knows that she and Dove took off their wedding rings on the second day after the curse broke; those rings, like many other rings from curse marriages, are on sale in the pawnshop. Gold doubts if any of the rings will ever sell locally; perhaps one day he'll put them up on Ebay.

There is, however, hidden in a locked drawer in his basement, another ring that's waiting to be called into use.

Belle stirs and kisses his chest. Her left hand slides down his body and a chuckle rumbles in her throat.

He'll just have to skip his morning shower too. Then again, they could save fifteen minutes if they showered together. . . .

* * *

><p>Day Forty-Six.<p>

This morning as he walks from home to the courthouse, he passes a group of children playing baseball in the park. He pauses to watch. He wonders if Bae plays baseball. He imagines taking Bae to a baseball game and eating hot dogs as they shout rude comments about the umpire's eyesight.

Then again, Bae might be a full-grown man by now. Maybe he'd like to go to a ball game with his old man anyway.

Or maybe he'd like his old man to magically turn back the clock, make him fourteen again. Let them share together all those years they've missed, all those father-son traditions of this world that Gold has learned about through television. He could turn the clock way, way back, make Bae an infant, so that Bae's only memories of a mother would be memories of Belle. They deserve that, don't they?

It would be the best use of magic Rumplestiltskin's ever made. Of course, he'll let Bae choose: if the boy wants to remember Milah, so be it. Gold understands: despite everything Malcolm did and didn't do for him, Rumplestiltskin wants to remember his father, and Bae might feel the same about his birth mother.

But what a great gift it would be, to give Bae Belle as a mother, to give Belle Bae as a son.

Gold walks on, humming to himself.

* * *

><p>Day Fifty.<p>

Sometimes Belle comes with Gold to court, especially if there's a young child involved: she's sweet and quiet and small, and those qualities make her unthreatening; she brings picture books and stuffed animals and a pocketful of candies with which to amuse a child in the judge's chambers while the parents hash things out in the scary courtroom. This is one of those days, as the Nesmiths take on the Bilsons; Belle sits on a playmat the judge has purchased just for such occasions and she entertains four-year-old Micky with Matchbox cars and _Where_ _the_ _Wild_ _Things_ _Are_.

When the Bilsons come to take Micky home, under the watchful eye of a social worker—for Micky's too young to remember his Enchanted Forest parents—Belle is slow to release him. Gold is puzzled at first as he helps Belle rise to her feet, but then Micky throws his arms around Belle's waist to give her a goodbye hug, and Gold gets it. Belle waves as the Bilsons carry Micky away. Gold stares after them. Whatever the judge and the Nesmiths are saying goes right over his head.

With his deep brown eyes and shaggy haircut, Micky could pass for Bae's little brother.

Belle packs up her playthings. "Excuse us, please. We've got another appointment."

She takes her beloved home and prepares him tea, allowing him his silence. And when he stares unseeing into his mug and releases a strangled sound, she takes him in her arms. "Someday, sweetheart. . . ."

She presses her cheek to his chest.

* * *

><p>Someday is too far away.<p>

That night, when Belle is sound asleep, Gold slips away from her, soft-foots it downstairs to the study and takes the egg out of his safe. He can feel the magic seeping into his pores already, and why not? It's True Love bottled up in this vial: the most powerful magic in existence, ever.

He encases the vial again, carries the egg with him back upstairs. He'll throw on some clothes and the stained work boots he wore when he painted the nursery. He'll shift the car into neutral and push it out of the garage and down the street, and when he's a block away he can safely start the engine without waking Belle.

He carries a flashlight in the glove compartment. He'll need that: it's a rugged path to the well that sits above the waters leading to Lake Nostros.

He sneaks back into the bedroom. Moonlight pours through the open drapes and pools on his sleeping beloved. Belle is clutching his pillow as a substitute for him. Her eyelids flutter under a dream. He has to set the egg down on his dresser. He's going to have to dress here: he can't carry the clothes, the shoes, the egg and his cane all the same time. As he slides the sweatshirt over his head, he smells the fabric softener Belle's been using.

Memories of all the little changes she's made, both as Belle and as Belinda, in his life over the years flood over him with that scent. She's brought music and dance and laughter and tears like he's never known; he wouldn't give up a single moment of their life together, not for all the gold in all the realms, not for immortality, not even for magic.

But if he had to—though he doesn't think he will have to—he'd give up his future with her for Bae.

He finishes dressing and tucks his shoes and his egg under his left arm, gathers his cane and makes his way in the dark back downstairs. He manages to open the front door without its usual squeaking, and then he's on the porch, stuffing his feet into his shoes, then he's on the lawn, his jeans cuffs collecting dew from the grass, and then he's in the garage, sliding the door up, and then he's in the Cadillac, behind the steering wheel.

He slips the key in the ignition and shifts the gears into neutral. He's sliding back out of the car, ready to push it into the street, when he catches sight of his own eyes in the rearview mirror. Instead of an excited gleam, there's a sadness in them, and underneath the sadness, an anger.

He stares at his reflection a long time. Then he sighs a shuddering sigh and shifts the gears back to park.

It can't be Belle _or_ Bae. He can't live with himself if he has to make that choice. It has to be Belle _and_ Bae.

He removes the key from the ignition and returns to the house.

* * *

><p>Day Fifty-Three.<p>

They awaken to a pounding on the front door. "If that's an aluminum siding salesman again, you have my permission to kick him to the curb." Belle pulls the covers over her head.

He drags himself up, yanks on his pajama bottoms and hobbles to the window. Through bleary eyes he peers down at the driveway, where a yellow Bug is parked. "It's Emma," he grunts. "If she's come to mooch breakfast—" and then he catches his breath. "It's _Emma_."

Belle shoots up out of bed and fumbles for her robe. "It's Emma! Oh, gods, Rumple, do you think—"

He grabs his cane and hurries down the stairs.

The sheriff holds a brown envelope in one hand and a cardboard tray carrying Styrofoam cups in the other. In her teeth she carries a paper bag from Granny's. As soon as he opens the door, she sets these items on the dining table. "I brought breakfast." She looks Gold up and down, then pats his bare chest. "Not too bad for a three-hundred-year-old dude. You work out?"

"What brings you here at this ungodly hour of—" Right on cue, the grandfather clock chimes eight times. Then Gold drops the cranky act and reaches for the envelope. "Is this—Emma, did you find him?"

"No, sorry, I didn't mean to get you stirred up. It's good, but not that good."

"Oh." He doesn't open the envelope yet, but he doesn't release it, either.

"Maybe you ought to put some clothes on." She eyes his bare feet and chest again. "Not that it's not a nice view, but. . . ." She picks up the cardboard tray. "I'll go in and get breakfast on the table."

"Oh," he repeats, deflated. He gives her back the envelope. "Yeah. Make yourself at home, Emma."

He passes Belle on the stairs. "We have time to get dressed," he informs her.

She slumps against the wall. "Oh." She turns around and follows him back to the bedroom.

When they gather in the kitchen ten minutes later, freshly scrubbed and fully dressed, Gold and Belle find cups of coffee and a plate of bagels waiting. "Sorry, no lox," Emma apologizes. "Granny didn't even know what lox are. But she threw in a tub of cream cheese, so it's not a total loss."

"Thank you, Emma, that's nice," Belle seats herself as Gold fetches milk and sugar for the coffee. "What do you have there?" She peers at the envelope. "From Boston."

"The age progressions." Emma plops a blob of cream cheese on her bagel and licks her knife. "I haven't opened them yet."

"We should eat first," Belle suggests. "We don't want to make a mess of the pictures."

"Now, remember, the artist didn't have much to go on, just that sketch and the photos of you," Emma cautions Gold. "But it should help."

"It'll be fascinating to see what he might look like now," Belle says. "Even though we don't know what age he might be." She and Emma continue to chat over bagels, but Gold has fallen silent. He picks at his bagel and stares at the envelope.

Finally the women finish breakfast and the three of them move to the living room, where they sit side by side on the couch, Emma in the middle. She slices the envelope open with her fingernail and withdraws a folder. Laying it on the coffee table, she spreads the contents out—and sucks in a deep breath. When she exhales, a string of cuss words comes out with the breath.

"What is it?" Belle asks.

"You _know_ something," Gold surmises. "Tell us."

"It's just that, in these later pictures, he looks a lot like someone I used to know." Emma squints at one of the drawings. "A lot. Right down to the killer grin."

"Who, Emma?" Gold demands.

"A coincidence; it's got to be," Emma mutters. "One hell of a coincidence." There's hurt beneath the perplexity in her eyes as she looks from Belle to Gold. "He—Baelfire—here, in his thirties—he looks just like Henry's father."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"I'm sorry. I can't." With a slash of her hand, Emma sweeps the age progressions back into the folder, picks the lot up, then steps over Gold's feet.

He seizes her wrist. "Oh, yes, you can, dearie. Sit back down."

"Please, Emma," Belle urges. "You know how important this is."

"It's a mistake, a coincidence. It can't be him." She shoves her captured arm into Gold's chest, pushing him back into the couch and forcing him to release her.

"Emma, please!" Belle scrambles to her feet as Gold fumbles for his cane. He barks, "We had a deal, Ms. Swan!"

But the sheriff ignores them and with a slam of the door, she's gone. Belle stops short in the foyer, staring in dismay through the strained glass. She draws in a shuddering breath and speaks reassuringly, but her words affect only herself: Gold has already written Ms. Swan off. He's so used to being betrayed and tricked by the few he's placed his fragile hopes in that he's never thought himself included in the community of those Emma has been destined to save; it's so easy, then, to pull away from her, as she has just done him.

Belle says, "She'll come back. Give her time. She's had a shock. Haven't you?"

With a growl, Gold struggles to his feet, hauling himself up by the arm of the couch. "What are you talking about?"

"If it's true, it's got to be the most amazing coincidence in history. Your son—her lover? Out of the millions of people in this world—"

He stoops to fetch his fallen cane, then straightens, his teeth gritted. "Not coincidence, Belle. The Fates. The son of the Dark One coupling with the savior—a sick joke of the Fates. Or part of some plan, I don't know, to unify magic or obliterate evil." He walks rapidly toward the study, calling over his shoulder, "I don't give a damn what brought them together. She knows where my son is and she won't tell me; that's all that matters."

Belle trails after him. "What are you going to do?" He doesn't answer her, just keeps walking. "Rumple, please! What are you—you're not going to _hurt_ her, are you?"

He pulls the door to the study open, but lets her see the indignation on his face before he enters. "I'm sorry, Rumple." Her hands fall to her sides. "Sorry I doubted you and sorry she ran out on us."

"She's the daughter of a man who tricked me and imprisoned me in a fairy-dust mine. Do you know what fairy dust does to my kind, Belle? Casual contact, less than an hour, causes nausea, headaches, joint pain; prolonged contact causes mental illness. I was in Charming's prison for nearly a year. I should have died, but my curse wouldn't let me." He pauses, leaning against his desk to rest a moment. His back is turned. "I knew he'd imprison me; I'd planned it that way, so that they'd think they'd neutralized me, let down their guard, and Snow did, enough to trade me the last piece of information I needed. I knew he'd do his best to weaken me, but I never suspected he'd order his guards to beat me and starve me. So much for heroes." He glances over his shoulder at Belle. "So, more fool I, that I trusted his hero daughter."

"She'll come back," Belle says lamely. "Please, Rumple, don't give up."

"I've wasted too much time already." He continues across the room, past the Early American desk and chairs, the imposing legal library, brightened by the African violets and porthos plants that Belle has added and the photos of Belle that Gold has added. He opens the face of an Ethan Allen pendulum clock, behind which hides his wall safe, and from there he removes the ornamental egg.

Belle rushes forward and tries to stay him with a gentle hand to his arm. "This is a mistake, Rumple. Magic might find Bae, but it will only drive him away from you. It's why he left in the first place, because of how it changed you."

His face frozen, he sets the egg on the table and opens it, removing the vial. "No more wasted time," he growls. Despite his anger, he can't look her in the eye.

She takes a step back. "Rumple! We had a deal! I expect you to live up to it."

Now he looks at her, pointing toward the living room. "She broke our deal when she walked out! _She_ broke it, not me. I'm no longer obligated—"

"Yes, you are," Belle shouts back at him. "You're obligated to me! Your deal was with her and me, and I haven't walked out! I'm still in it, and you owe me seven days."

He snorts as he slips the vial into his jacket pocket.

"I'm not kidding, Rumplestiltskin. I expect you to live up to your agreement with me, just as I will for you: I'll continue to pour everything I've got into this search, and in return I expect—demand—my full sixty days. You will honor your agreement with me, Rumplestiltskin, just as you honor me."

He stares at her unblinking; she stares right back. They're panting slightly with the exertions of their anger. He slams his hand on his desk, sending some of the file folders slumping onto the carpet.

Belle doesn't budge. In a hushed voice, she repeats, "As you honor me."

He releases a heated breath, but fishes the vial from his pocket. He holds it a long moment, relishing the warmth and power radiating from its contents. But at last he blinks and lays the vial back into the egg. "As I honor you." He closes the egg and replaces it in the safe. When he turns around again, he's leaning heavily on his cane; he walks out of the room, feeling her eyes upon him.

She lets him go.

* * *

><p>Day Fifty-Four.<p>

They hadn't slept well last night. They'd slept together, but not in each other's arms, and they hadn't made love. He's not angry with her, nor she with him, but he's overwrought, and he builds a wall of thought around his emotions. Brick by brick, he's rebuilding his original plan, adding to it all he's learned in this world, and she grants him the space to do that. He will regain his equilibrium in a day or two.

He'd had an early court appearance this morning, and a nasty one: the meanest yet as two couples seemed to forget it was a child they were playing tug-of-war over. His personal opinion is that neither should have custody, but he's not hired to have a personal opinion: he leaves that to expert witness Archie, who, to Gold's relief, recommends family therapy for all concerned.

He's come home to the pink house just as cranky as he left it, but despite his anger, a smile pops out as enters the foyer: Shostakovich is on the stereo, coconut milk chicken is baking in the oven, and Belle is humming in the kitchen. She returns his smile as he comes in and trumps the smile with a kiss. She's makeup-free, barefoot and in jeans and a ponytail, and no runway model can hold a candle to her.

"Did your client win?" she asks as she tosses a salad.

He smirks. "Not exactly."

"Did the other side win?"

"Not exactly." He steals two grape tomatoes from her bowl and tosses one into his mouth.

"Who won, then?"

"I hope the child did." He feeds the second tomato to her.

As they sit down to eat, he doesn't ask how her research went; if she had made progress, she would have told him. And when they retire for the night, he doesn't cross another day off his calendar: he's discontinuing that practice so that she won't feel he's reminding her of her failures.

"I miss you," he ventures as they change for bed, for she's given up her work as his paralegal in order to devote herself entirely to the search for Bae.

"I miss you too. When this is over—when we have Bae with us—would you like to continue your law practice? I really enjoyed being your researcher."

"If we don't come back to Storybrooke, I'll need to find another occupation. I'm not really a lawyer, you know," he smiles ruefully.

"There's a whole townful of families who'd disagree with that, Rumple. You've done a lot of good for them."

"I did a lot of bad to them," he mumbles.

"It's the man you are now that matters. A man a son can be proud of." She kisses him. "And a girlfriend."

She makes a pillow of his shoulder and they talk idly until they fall asleep.

* * *

><p>Day Fifty-Five.<p>

As a personal favor to Gold, and a break from the intensity of the child custody cases, Judge Fairfax and her stenographer forgo their lunch for the Doves' divorce hearing. Fairfax shakes her head in puzzlement as she looks from one to the other of the trio standing before her. "Only in Storybrooke," she says, mystified. "Standing here before me are a husband, a wife and her paramour, to have a marriage of nearly thirty years dissolved, and we're all tickled pink about it."

"Just setting things back the way they were supposed to be, Your Honor," Dove remarks.

"Well, that aim won't be fully achieved until Regina's the one standing before me," Fairfax scowls, then her face clears. "All right. Let's proceed."

It's over in ten minutes, and Fairfax invites the plaintiff, the defendant and the attorney/co-respondent to her chambers for a quick lunch. Every so often, Fairfax pauses, shakes her head again and mutters, "Only in Storybrooke."

On the courthouse steps, Josiah turns to Belle. "How do you feel?"

"A little relieved, a little sad. We had a good life together," she answers thoughtfully. "It just wasn't real."

"Neither were we," Josiah admits. "But yeah, it was a good life. Thank you, Bindy."

"What are you going to do now?" she asks.

"Back to work." He shrugs, then looks at Gold. "I sold that rowboat this morning."

"Yeah? To whom?"

Dove sniggers. "Robinson Crusoe. He swears he remembers it from his days on the Island of Despair."

Gold chuckles. "I tip my hat to you, Josiah. You were right about 'faux antiquing' that hunk of plywood and glue."

"When I took that boat down from the ceiling, though, it got me to thinking," Dove's eyes trail across the courthouse lawn, past the street, past the stop signs and lampposts and to the horizon. "The fishing here's kinda lost its appeal, you know? If you don't mind, Mr. G., I'd like to take a long weekend, have a go at the Androscoggin River."

Their smiles falling, Belle and Gold blink at him a full minute before Belle ventures, "Are you sure, Jo?"

"No one's ever succeeded in leaving Storybrooke," Gold points out.

"Regina has, apparently."

"The curse didn't affect her; she cast it. But everyone else who's tried—"

"Ruby, Ashley, Emma, Kathryn—"

"Has done so to their peril," Gold finishes.

"But the curse is broken. It's over; we're free. Aren't we?"

Gold considers the problem. "It seems likely, but why take a chance? We need to test it first."

"How are you going to test it, unless someone leaves?"

"Jo-" Belle warns.

"Me," Gold says. "I intend to leave in five days. Why don't you wait another week? I'll call you if the coast is clear."

"What makes you think it would be any less of a risk for you than for me?"

Gold throws a furtive glance at Belle. "I'll have protection that you won't. Give me a week to check things out, okay?"

"Please, Jo," Belle adds.

"You're forgetting, you two: fish have got to swim and birds have got to catch 'em." He gives Belle a peck on the cheek. "I'll wait until Easter though."

They watch him climb into his Yukon. "He'll be all right, won't he?" Belle wonders. "The curse is over, isn't it?"

"Yes." Gold draws in a deep breath. "Sure, he'll be fine. I'll check it out though."

"After you've brought magic into this world?" Belle frowns.

"Emma hasn't come back, Belle," he reminds her. He bites his tongue but the rest of the comment hangs in the air: _And your research has produced nothing_.

"I still have five days." She juts her chin out.

* * *

><p>Day Fifty-Six.<p>

Belle gives Gold a frantic push, shoving him out of a dream about pancakes. "Someone's downstairs," she hisses.

"Call the sheriff." He curses as he yanks on his pajama bottoms and grabs his cane. He creeps down the hallway, with Belle, her cell phone pressed to her ear and a spiked high heel in the other hand, following closely.

"It's the answering service. Emma's not picking up."

"I'll distract him. Sneak around the back way to the study and grab my gun." He raises an eyebrow at the high heel. "What do you plan to do with that: compare shoe sizes?"

"A heel to the eye or the throat can be a powerful weapon," she argues. "I know because Emma gave a women's self-defense class last year."

A voice from the bottom of the stairs interrupts them. "For two people are who trying to be sneaky, you two make enough noise to wake Rip Van Winkle. You left the back door unlocked."

"Emma!" Belle calls out, rushing down the stairs to hug the sheriff.

"Rip Van Winkle—one of Regina's early experiments with sleeping curses," Gold muses, coming down more sedately. "She didn't let the portion simmer overnight, as she should have. Always in a rush, that one. Anyway, the spell was supposed to be permanent, breakable only by True Love's Kiss, but the recipient—"

"You mean 'the victim,'" Emma corrects.

"Awoke after ten years."

"Twenty."

"No, dear, it was ten. I remember clearly because he came to me right after awakening and asked to be put under again. Seems the nagging wife he'd tried to escape by allowing Regina to curse him hadn't changed a whit." He's at the foot of the stairs now, watching Emma warily. "But, I take it, you have? Changed your mind, that is?"

Emma can't face him, so she faces Belle, who plugs in the coffee pot. "No, I didn't, but I—well, I felt bad about running out on you, so I came to apologize."

"Your apology is worthless, dearie, unless it's followed by a name and an address for the man you know as Henry's father." Gold leans on his cane.

Emma slowly seats herself in her usual chair at their kitchen table. "I don't know where he lives. I haven't seen him in ten years."

Gold thinks a moment. "So my son doesn't know he's a father."

Working up her anger, she scowls at him. "He left before I knew I was pregnant—but not before he framed me for a felony and vanished."

Gold lowers his head, his hair hiding his face.

"That can't be Bae, then," Belle says, carrying three mugs to the table. She sounds both relieved and disappointed at the same time as she looks to Gold for confirmation. "The kid who walked two miles to return a purse that a traveling potter had dropped in the road. The kid who once fought a bully twice his size to protect little kids from him."

"The kid whose father abandoned him," Gold says softly. "Whose grandfather abandoned his father. You see, it's not his fault, Ms. Swan. It runs in the family." He brings the sugar bowl and the milk pitcher to the table, and sits down.

"Does anyone want breakfast?" Belle asks, but is answered with polite refusals.

They're silent as they wait for the coffee to perk, and they're still silent as they sip their coffee. Emma finally blurts, "I can't do it. I know I'm going back on my word and I'm sorry for that, but I can't face him again, and I can't risk him coming here. If he finds out about Henry—what if he wants to take him?"

"We'll represent you," Belle says.

"It's not what the law wants that worries me; it's what Henry wants. I told Henry his father died a hero. How will he ever trust me again if he finds out I lied about that?"

"I'll make a deal with you, Emma," Gold offers. "If it's Bae, I won't tell him about Henry or you, and I won't bring him back here."

"Really? You'd kept your son and his son apart like that?"

Gold answers emphatically, "There's nothing I wouldn't do to find my son again. I think I've made that abundantly clear."

"How can you keep information like that from your own son?"

"I'll trust that sooner or later, you'll change your mind." Gold studies her. "If your ex is Baelfire, I can be. . . your scout. Inform you what he's doing, what he's like now, and then you can decide if you want to see him, or let Henry see him." He leans toward her. "Ms. Swan, all I want is be reunited with my son. I'll leave it to you to decide what's best for your son, even if he is my grandson."

She thinks it over a long time, but when she decides, it's quick: she pushes away from the table and stands. "I'm sorry, Gold, I can't. I just got my son back a year ago; I can't risk losing him." She rushes for the front door, and they follow her.

"Emma, you're being unfair!" Belle protests.

"We had a deal, Ms. Swan," Gold snarls. "I gave you the information you needed to save your son. All I ask is the same in return." But she's yanked the door open. "Ms. Swan?" She's on the porch now. "Emma! Emma, it's my _son_; surely you can understand. Give me the second chance with Bae that you got with Henry."

"I'm sorry." Anything else she might say is drowned out by the sound of her Bug's engine starting.

As she peels out into the street, Gold thrashes the porch rail with his cane, shattering the latter. Belle doesn't interfere, just brings him his spare cane.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Day Fifty-Eight.

Belle lives in the kitchen now. Except for the five or six hours a night she sleeps (in his arms, but too tired for conversation, let alone romance), she's limited her physical world to 300 square feet. She's shoved two of the chairs aside to make room at the table for a rocking chair, which she's padded with pillows; with her laptop, her iPad, a notebook and her cell phone replacing the bowl of fresh flowers she used to keep on the table, this is her command central. On the counter where canisters of flour and sugar used to be, she's set up a scanner/printer/fax machine. Her screen saver is Milah's sketch of Bae.

During the day, if she remembers to eat, it's a peanut butter sandwich or cold cuts; discovering this, Gold sets up a daily delivery from Granny's. He takes over the supper cooking and the laundry; she doesn't complain about the way he folds her panties. The cleaning, they let go. Dove picks up a week's worth of groceries for them before he takes off for a Ted's Tackle shopping spree.

Gold's tempted, of course, to cajole, criticize, nag and wheedle her into taking better care of herself, but he knows better than to interfere: she's promised him full devotion to this work. As he watches her nod off in her rocking chair, one hand clutching her iPad, he reflects on the role reversal this world has wrought: she, laboring long hours to conjure the magic that will find Bae; he, tending to their domestic needs.

He's never felt such gratitude toward anyone as he feels toward Belle, nor has he ever felt so indebted. The words come hard–he's always equated debt with vulnerability and weakness–so he tries to show her by taking care of her, by caring for her. He brings her cups of soup and tumblers of tea (extra ice) and massages her temples when eye strain gives her a headache. He moves his books and legal pads to the opposite end of the kitchen table so that he can be close to her even as her mind wanders over trails through a world comprised of brain cells and electronics.

They hardly talk to each other in these days, but he's never felt closer to her.

Through a shady website, she purchases Henry's birth certificate: the space for the father's name is blank. She finds a single newspaper article about Emma: it seems the arrest of a teenager, even for possession of stolen goods, isn't news to anyone. The newspaper doesn't mention an accomplice.

She tracks down two young women who, she confirms, were in prison with Emma: Emma refused to talk about the father of her baby or the douche bag who betrayed her to the cops. She never had a visitor, a letter or a phone call, something they found unusual.

The phone rings with leads that never quite lead anywhere. People come to their door, bringing emotional problems that they expect the law to solve, but no one brings breakfast.

* * *

><p>Day Fifty-Nine.<p>

He finds Belle crying in the bathroom. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gulps between sobs. He runs a bath for her with lavender bubbles and washes her hair for her, as she once did for him, and he reassures her he's proud of her, impressed with her tenacity and her skills, and more grateful than he can say. But even as he tucks her into bed, a hardness is rising in his eyes.

* * *

><p>Day Sixty.<p>

He's alone in the bed when he awakens at seven o'clock. He runs a hand over her pillow, missing her. So she's taken off. She's afraid of the monster he'll become when he has power again. He doesn't blame her. If he weren't so selfish, he'd be relieved for her: he has no idea what to expect the magic will do to him physically or psychologically when it floods into his bloodstream. All he can be sure of is that this magic will be 100 percent pure, unlike the tainted or watered-down stuff he's encountered in other lands. The magic will be pure, but he's not.

He dresses in his house-painting clothes, for he has a hike through the woods ahead of him, and he makes his way downstairs. His ankle hurts more than usual. He's too nervous to eat, so a cup of coffee will suffice for breakfast.

Apparently, Belle's had the same idea. She's cleared away her and his work materials and has set three objects at his place at the table: a cup of coffee, a windbreaker and the ornamental egg.

"Good morning," she says. "I don't suppose you want any breakfast first." She sounds tired and disheartened, but resigned.

"No thanks." He sips the coffee. "Thank you for. . . still being here."

"I'll go with you," she says, and then he notices she's dressed in jeans and boots. When doubt fills his expression, she continues, "I won't interfere or try to talk you out of it."

He smiles. "As you honor me."

"I still don't agree with what you're doing, but I stand with you, Rumple."

Intellectually, he's known ever since their first, modest kiss in the Dark Castle that she's his True Love and (stunningly) he, hers. Emotionally, it's always been another story. He's heard "I love you's" before, and always, the professor had abandoned him, leaving him shattered. Not even the fearsome Dark One was strong enough to withstand that pain as Cora screwed him over. He has no idea what security in love looks like; only in magic and money has he trusted successfully.

So he watches her warily a long moment, half-expecting to see in her eyes the ghosts of Malcolm, Milah and Cora; but he sees instead emotions he can't identify. No one has ever looked at him with these emotions before; he has to reflect upon his observations of other couples before he can identify what Belle is showing him: love, both of the spirit and the body; loyalty and devotion; sincerity and generosity; concern for his well-being and happiness. . . and faith. His hand starts to shake when he puts the name to that emotion: my gods, she doesn't just trust him; she has faith in him. That means she thinks him good.

_Who's_ _the_ _fool_, _then_? _Her_ _for_ _believing_ _in_ _you_ _or_ _you_ _for_ _needing_ _her to believe_ _in_ _you_? a black voice giggles in his head, a voice he used to attribute to the curse, but as he stands here now under the blessing of Belle's faith in him, he identifies the voice correctly for the first time, recognizing the giggle: it's the voice of his father. Not an ancient, magical being so much wiser and more powerful than Rumplestiltskin, but rather, just a man, a very flawed man with very selfish judgment. A voice then that can be ignored, that doesn't deserve listening to.

A voice that can and will be banished from his head.

When he answers her, it's with his own, true voice. He sets down his mug and holds his arms open; she comes to him for an embrace. "I love you, Belle." The words are so small but the enormity of them stretches across his entire existence and beyond. Everything he's ever done or will do, including the monumental change he's about to bring to this world, adds up to but a grain of sand against the enormity of love.

"I love you." She returns his kiss. "Let me get my jacket."

* * *

><p>Instead of his cane, he holds her hand in his right hand as they navigate the twisted, sloping path that leads to the well over Lake Nostros. She supports him, keeps him straight when his ankle wobbles. In his left hand he carries the egg.<p>

The well is one of his creations, like the library and the storybook. Regina designed the town (and that pink ankle-busting monstrosity he and Belle call home) and magic did the actual work of creation for it, but those three pieces are all his, written into the curse when Regina was still preoccupied with her war against Snow: the storybook, an element for breaking the curse; the well, an element for summoning magic–both of these to serve the search for Bae. The library, however, was for Belle: a tribute to the light of his life, whom he believed snuffed out. Not so long ago, he managed to give it to her. Someday, he'll explain its significance.

They've reached the well. His ankle hurts. His skin prickles with anticipation. Belle holds the egg so he can extract the vial. He holds it up to the light, admiring it as his greatest magical accomplishment, but somewhat dreading the unknown changes he's about to unleash. He wishes he knew where Regina is, so he'd know whether she'd gain the power too. He wishes there could be a halfway measure so he could experiment with the newborn magic in a controlled environment. He's thinking these thoughts as he admires the glow the morning light elicits from the potion, with Belle in his peripheral vision; but when he turns to face the well, his vision narrows. "For Bae," he whispers as a sort of a prayer. "For a chance to say I love you."

He unstoppers the vial, upends it and the viscous fuchsia liquid, hardly a tablespoonful, oozes out. He shakes the vial to get to the last drop. The well answers with a thick violet cloud; too heavy to float, it carpets the ground at their feet. It rolls over and over itself like an ocean wave, gathering and growing in size and energy. As it flows around his feet and creeps up his ankles, leaking through the thin cloth of his socks, he breathes in deeply. His body temperature rises and his muscles relax into the magic. It smells like vinegar and burns like iodine on an open wound; it tastes like whisky on his tongue and when it hits his belly, he feels like Superman.

No, he feels like the Dark One again.

In a few minutes, the smell and the taste fade, but his senses are heightened. He can hear the worms beneath the ground breathing. He can discern colors that the human eye can't detect. He doesn't remember much about the first heady moments after Zoso passed the curse onto him, but he does remember a feeling of freedom and fearlessness: those feelings return now, briefly, before his mind gains control of them.

"Rumple?"

After several long minutes, he thinks he's acclimated to the magic. He looks to her. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Can you feel it?"

She wrinkles her nose. "It feels oily. It stinks."

"Some people are born with a propensity toward magic; most aren't and will never be able to access it. And then a very few have it thrust upon them. It's a crap shoot."

"One I'm glad I lost." She tilts her head and grasps his hand to show him. "Rumple! Your skin is changing. Your fingernails, your eyes, your hair."

He examines the glittery skin of his hand. "I'm reverting. I suppose it's my price for the magic. Belle, am I–horrible to look at?"

"I found you attractive then and I do now. Your extraordinary appearance fascinates me." She reassures him with a hand pressed beneath his shirt.

"I can't leave Storybrooke like this. I'll freak people out." He glowers at his blackened fingernails. "Bae will know I'm still a monster. I'll need to create a glamour." He concentrates, passes his hand over his face and feels the magic rising, tumbling from his fingers, but Belle shakes her head. His skin remains green-gray. "I need to practice. It's not working as it used to. Belle, I'm going to stay in the cabin a few days until I understand how this magic works."

"I'll cancel your appointments, tell them you have the flu."

"Will you stay with me, Belle? I might be unpleasant during this time; magic requires strong emotions to fuel it. I'm not sure what it will do to me."

"Of course I'll stay."

* * *

><p>It's no vacation. He works on his magic from sunrise to sundown, standing beside the river, away from Belle, so he won't accidentally hurt her. . . so she won't see his tantrums of frustration, his nervousness, his fear that all his plans and all his machinations will come to naught because he can't manage the magic. He takes copious notes of his tests and experiments, and by the second day he sees patterns: he's relieved that although the procedures are different here, magic follows the same laws. By the end of the second day he can light a fire in the fireplace and conjure a cup of tea. On the fifth day, he summons a rainstorm and conjures umbrellas for himself and Belle and they walk the woods together. On the sixth day, he summons the globe from his office. Squeezing a drop of blood onto the globe, he can barely breathe as the magic takes control and his blood coagulates over an island just off the continent. "New York," Belle identifies.<p>

He heals his ankle. "Let's go back."

As they climb into the Caddy, she turns her cell phone back on; she listens to the messages as he drives. Various clients have called to reschedule, Jo's called to remind them to make room in their freezer for all the trout he'll bring back. Then there's a strange message from Emma: after sputtering an apology, she blurts, "Neal Cassidy. That's the alias he used when I knew him. He might not use it now. He lived in New York City. Don't know if he'll still be there–it was ten years ago." She spells the name out. "Don't bring him here. Don't tell him about Henry. You promised." She clicks off.

There are more routine messages, then Emma again, breathless: "Call me ASAP. Josiah Dove's missing. His car was found in a ditch at the 'Welcome' sign. No evidence of an accident or foul play, just sitting there with the driver's door open. We're hoping you've seen him."

Gold brings the Caddy to a screeching halt.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

A hasty call to the sheriff's office confirms the news: Dove was last seen yesterday in Liza's Bait Shop. "He told Liza he was going down to the Androscoggin for four days of trout fishing. He bought three cans of earthworms, two cans of leeches, a case of beer, a _Sports Illustrated_, and a box of Slim Jims. He left a 'gone fishing' sign on the pawnshop door and a 'be back Monday' message on the answering machine. No sign of disturbance at his house or your shop. I found his cell on the backseat of his car; no messages on it, and the only people he called in the past week were you and the tackle shop." Emma pauses for breath. "You guys heard from him at all?"

"A phone message from Wednesday," Belle reports. "He said to make room in our freezer because he'd bring us back a mess of rainbow trout. Then he said, 'See you next week, folks.' And that was all." Her voice catches on the last syllable.

"Did he tell you what route he was taking? A motel he'd be staying at? Any sights he planned to see? People he planned to meet?"

All Belle's responses being negative, Emma encourages her to call immediately if they hear from Dove or think of a clue to his whereabouts. Neither woman mentions Emma's earlier revelation about Neal Cassidy. Emma then groans. "Now I got a new disaster to deal with. Some sort of environmental thing, or weather or. . .I don't know. This huge purple cloud appeared over town a week ago–it's gone now but it left an oily film over everything and man, did it stink. Just a head's up: you're gonna need to hose down your house and shop. All right, call if you hear from Dove."

Belle raises an eyebrow at Gold, who wrinkles his nose. "A little magic will clean that right up, sweetheart," he assures her. "And it will find Josiah too. I have a locator potion in the shop; all we'll need is an article of his clothing."

Belle scowls and gnaws her bottom lip. Before starting the ignition again, Gold reaches across the seats to stroke her cheek with his knuckles. She's struggling; he can see she's tempted to ask him not to use magic to find Dove. She's approaching this from a moral perspective: she thinks every use of dark magic takes a little light from his soul. This doesn't have to be the price, he's argued: there are other ways to pay. They've gone round and round on this issue and have reached a sort of compromise: he will use magic only when he can think of no other solution and in return, she will not criticize. . . too much.

"For Jo," she says thoughtfully. "Because he's in trouble."

"And time could make a difference," Gold adds. At the shop he leaves the engine running; he knows exactly where on the shelf the box containing the locator potion can be found. He rushes in, able to run now that his ankle's healed; he ignores the shocked stares he receives from people on the street. He seizes the box, tucks it under his arm, and runs for the door again–and is nearly smacked in the face by a bird. "What the f-?" He hasn't time for this. If some mama bird has built a nest in the eaves of his shop and is protecting her eggs, he'll just have to relocate her later.

This is one damned persistent bird: she circles closely above his head as he locks the door and she follows as he jumps into the Caddy. She swoops into the air as he peels out. "What was up with that bird?" Belle wonders.

He shrugs. "Maybe one of my many satisfied customers," he winks at her. He suspects the introduction of magic may be upsetting the balance of nature, but he's not about to tell her that.

They make it across town in minutes, and Belle unlocks the door to the ranch house. As they enter, Belle studiously ignores the bare places on the walls where her "wedding" photos used to hang and the empty knickknack shelves where her Hallmark Bells of the Fifty States collection used to be displayed. She also ignores the closed-off nursery as she runs upstairs to the master bedroom. She's back in a moment with an armful of Dove's shirts, they run outside and she dumps the shirts on the car's hood. As Gold yanks the back seat door open, Belle yelps.

"Sweetheart?" Gold nearly drops the box he's retrieving.

"Look!" She points at the steering wheel, where a white-winged bird is perched, bobbing its head.

"Persistent beastie, isn't she?" Gold opens the driver's side door and tries to shoo the bird out. The bird won't be moved. "I'll just send her back to the shop," he explains, but the bird flies away of its own accord before he can summon his magic. Surreptitiously, he checks out the sky and the ground for signs of other disturbances in the wildlife, but this crazed bird seems the only one.

He fetches the box from the backseat and sets it on the hood of the car; from the box he removes a bottle filled with a blue liquid. "Spread one of the shirts out."

She smoothes the fabric as she lays out a stained Patriots jersey. "He's been eating spaghetti without a napkin again," she muses. "Oh, Rumple, do you think he's all right?"

"He's a resourceful man. He can take care of himself." Gold pours half the liquid onto the jersey. The shirt glows, ripples, then lifts from the hood. It floats on an air current back to the house and comes to rest on the porch rail.

"What does that mean–that he's in the house?" Belle runs to the porch and throws the front door open. She runs inside calling for Jo as she searches each room.

Gold doesn't follow her. He's studying the jersey–or rather, the white-winged bird that's hopped onto it and is pecking at the spaghetti stain. "You again?" An awful feeling wells in his belly, then an awful thought crystallizes in his mind. "Where did you come from, birdie?" He approaches slowly so as not to startle the bird. "Did Snow White send you, or did you come from the Underworld?"

The bird continues to peck at the shirt.

Gold steps onto the porch and holds out an open palm in invitation. "Is that it? Did Thanatos send you?"

The bird flaps its wings angrily, then streaks into the house. Blanching, Gold follows. The bird leads him into the living room, then suddenly wheels about and streaks upstairs. Gold is reluctant to follow. A phantom pain returns to his ankle as he considers what to do. In the back of the house, Belle is still calling for Jo.

So fast he hasn't a chance to react, the bird returns, lands on his shoulder, hopping around; he doesn't shoo it away this time. The bird hops onto his head and he feels something drop onto his hair. He reaches a hand to his head; the bird flies onto the arm of Josiah's Lazy Boy recliner and stares. "'Nevermore,' is that your message? But you're not a raven," Gold mutters. He picks up the small, rectangular piece of polished wood that the bird has dropped into his hair. "You're a"–he rubs his thumb across the three white dots painted onto one end of the domino–"dove."

The bird flaps its wings and hops onto the ottoman.

"Belle," he shouts. "In the living room. He's here."

Belle comes running, a big grin and warm greeting on her lips, but her face falls when she surveys the room. "Where? I don't–"

Gold points at the ottoman.

"That crazy bird again," Belle shoos at it. "Out, out of the house, you!"

"Belle," Gold says softly, "that's Josiah."

* * *

><p>Belle is moving around her old kitchen. Everything's just where she left it; she's making tea, chamomile, because tea's just what everyone needs right now and because she needs something to do. At the table sit her beloved and the sheriff; perched on the napkin holder is her ex-husband.<p>

"How do you know?" Emma is exasperated. She may have broken the curse, but she doesn't fully believe.

"Ask him," Gold suggests. As he watches her interrogate the bird, he's looking at her with new eyes. He visualizes her walking beside Bae (he has to force himself to see Bae as a full-grown man now, not a teenager) down the streets of New York, at home there, at home with each other. She wouldn't have her arm linked in his, as Belle likes to do with Gold; Emma's not the cuddly type. No, she'd have her hands shoved in her pockets and Bae's arm would be draped casually around her shoulders, and every so often she'd give him an affectionate shove. There would be banter between them, not the gentle questions and sweet encouragements that Belle offers Gold; Bae and Emma would tease each other, provoke each other, dare each other. But when she looked across her shoulder into his eyes, it would be with pride, trust and affection, and in that way, she is no different from Belle, and Bae is no different from his father.

She's denied everything he imagines, with her accusations against Bae and her refusal to see him again, but Gold hears the hurt behind her barbed words, and if Belle can forgive the monster Rumplestiltskin, surely Emma can forgive the once brave and true Baelfire. Perhaps she need only be reminded that when she looks in admiration at her son, she's looking at a miniature version of Bae. Gold's never felt more fatherly than now, as he considers ways in which he can bring this family together.

Emma mutters a few choice swear words, but forces a smile for the bird. "Ahem. Bird. Are you–what Gold says you are?"

The bird bobs its head and she swears again. "Bird. Your name is Josiah Dove?"

The bird flaps its wings.

"You. . . Crap. This is ridiculous."

"The truth often is, Ms. Swan."

"Bird. Who do you work for?"

The bird hops onto Gold's head and pecks at his hair. "Stop that," Gold brushes him away. "Yes, I know what you think of my long hair, but you'd do well to remember who signs your paycheck."

"All right, then," Emma persists. "Who am I?"

"Maybe you should stick to yes or no questions," Belle suggests, bringing over three cups of tea.

The dove, however, is not deterred: it hops across the table to Emma, then pecks at her badge. She sighs. "What the hell, Gold?"

"That 'environmental thing' that appeared in town six days ago?" Gold calmly stirs his tea. "That was magic." He snaps his fingers and a plate of cookies appears in his hand. "Cookie, Ms. Swan?"

"What the f- are you playing at, Gold?"

He offers a cookie to Belle, then one to Dove, then makes the plate vanish. "Six days ago, when the agreed-upon sixty days had passed, I brought magic to this world. It's. . . different in this environment. I don't fully understand its behaviors yet. Regina's curse prevented people from coming into or leaving Storybrooke. You broke that curse, but it seems my introduction of magic may have brought that element of the curse back, with a twist."

"You mean if we try to leave, instead of crashing our cars, we'll turn into wildlife?"

"I don't know the ramifications yet, but I suspect it's more case specific." He reheats his tea by sticking a glowing finger into it. "I think perhaps we will revert to the forms we had before Regina cast the curse."

Emma points at the bird. "You mean, back in Fairytale Land, he was an actual dove?"

Gold runs his hand down his face. There's a puff of smoke, then when it clears, Emma is gaping at a sparkly skinned person with a bad perm and an even worse case of dental disease. "Just as I was an imp."

Emma opens and closes her mouth, but all that comes out is an "eep."

Gold summons the smoke again, and when it clears he's his old familiar dapper self. "This is called a glamour, Ms. Swan. A magical facade. I haven't actually changed my form, only the shell. So before you ask, I can't wave my hand and restore Josiah's humanity, though I wish to the gods I could."

Emma regains her voice. "What can you do?"

"Study. Experiment." He looks upon the bird with deep regret, and the dove cocks its head. "I brought magic here to find Bae. . . and to restore my power so that I can protect myself and my family. But I, of all people, should know you lose more than you win when you gamble with magic."

"We'll fix this," Belle vows. "I know we can, and then we'll go to New York and find your son."

"'We,'" he echoes. "You're ready, then, my love, to go back to the books?" What he's really asking is if she can trust him again. He reaches for her hand. "I need you to help me set things right." He's not ready to say that bringing magic here was a mistake; he still believes magic will heal his family; but as he listens to the dove sing its mourning song, he lets guilt crawl under his skin and bury itself.

"We're a team, Rumple." She squeezes his hand. "We'll figure this out. I'm honored to work with you."

"Why didn't I ask for your help a long time ago?" He kisses her hand.

Watching them, Emma's eyes fill with amazement. She puts on her emotional armor and stands, "All right, then, I got to get road blocks up and an emergency bulletin to City Hall." A trace of longing underlies her words. "And, uh, I got an address to hunt down for you, for when you break this boundary curse."


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

"In all this, we haven't asked the most important question." Gold turns to his avian friend after Emma leaves. "Josiah, do you want to be a man again?"

The bird bobs its head without hesitation.

With just a slight hesitation–for it now means solving two problems: breaking the new curse and reversing the curse's effect upon Dove–Gold replies, "Then I'll do my best to make it so."

"You changed him from a bird to a man once before," Belle ponders. "Why can't you again?"

"There's now a curse upon him that's trapped him into this form. It's a matter of understanding this curse fully; what we see here may be just one of its effects, and then I have to know the exact cause so I can unravel the magic effectively and safely." He tries to sound confident as he addresses the bird. "My theory, Josiah, is that remnants of the original curse sprang to life with the introduction of magic to this world. If that's the case, since the original curse was my creation, I know it well, and that should give me a head start. What may complicate matters is that Nature, in this world, seems to be reacting to magic like a body would react to a virus: as something to be defended against. But perhaps I can convince Nature that magic is a vaccine, and then she will accept the intrusion." He stands. "I need to get back to my lab, and Belle, if you'll start looking through the books in the cabinet in the shop workroom, I'll give you a list of terms to look for."

"You have a court date at four o'clock."

He groans, but he knows resistance is futile. He's up against a power greater than his own: Belle's sense of right and wrong. "This evening, then, I'll get to work. Josiah, I'd like you to go into the woods: there are several plants I'll need."

How strange it feels to be speaking his plans for magic aloud, after centuries of secretiveness. How strange to have another's help, freely given in full knowledge of his intentions, rather than wrung out through manipulation.

How reassuring it feels to not be alone.

"I know how you feel about magic," he begins as he drives Belle to the shop.

"Only magic can correct this," she answers. "I want us to help Jo, and we must break this new curse. But after that–Rumple, it's what magic does to the people who wield it, and the wedge it drives between us. That's what I resent. After things have been set to rights–I know it's asking a lot, but wouldn't you rather stand before Bae on your own two feet instead of leaning on magic?"

"I was a wizard for three hundred years, Belle," his voice drops. "It's who I am. But if that's the price I have to pay to have Bae back and keep you in my life too, I'll do it."

She runs a soothing hand along his arm. "I believe in you, Rumple. You've always honored your agreements with me. And I have every confidence that you'll break this new curse."

He falls silent.

* * *

><p>In the shower, Belle is singing; in their bedroom, he's changing into his pajamas. His skin feels hot, burning with unused magic: just to take the edge off, he conjures a pair of wooden hangers for his suit and sends the clothes flying across the bedroom to the closet. It's such a small use of magic–it's like a marathon runner quitting after a two-block jog, but anything more, Belle would notice.<p>

He stands with his shirt hanging open, staring into the mirror. His skin has turned bright gold, an indicator that his power has reached its peak. He'll have to start using it regularly or it will affect his physical and emotional state.

How weird his skin looks, sparkling under the electric lights. How rough and bumpy. How broken his teeth. How wrinkled his face. How ugly and old he is.

In the beginning of his curse, he was so caught up with the thrill of power that he scarcely noticed the ugliness; soon enough, he was absorbed in the search for Bae and didn't give a damn what his body looked like. In fact, the few times he thought about it at all, he figured it was a just punishment for choosing magic over his son. But circumstances are different here. He's gotten used to straight hair, white teeth, smooth skin and the occasional hidden admiring glances. He's gotten used to looking like he belongs in this world.

As he pulls his lower lip down to examine his blackened teeth, a pair of arms slips around his waist and a soft body presses against his back. She's standing directly behind him, so he can't see her in the mirror, but in his mind's eye he can: he finds Belle most beautiful when she's just come from the shower, warm and damp, skin glowing, free of cosmetics and jewelry and most of her clothes. The only time she's more beautiful is in the afterglow of their lovemaking.

"Why do you suppose you changed back? You didn't cross the town line, did you?" Belle asks.

"No."

"If it was because the curse broke, why didn't any of the rest of us change back? Archie, the nuns, they haven't transformed."

"A payment must always be made for any use of magic, and I used a great deal. This may be the price magic has extracted from me." He phrases his question carefully; he dreads the answer he expects. "Belle, can you tolerate–" he waves at his mirror image–"this? How I look now?"

"In the castle, when you were occupied with the wheel or your experiments," she confesses, "I would watch you from the corner of my eye. I'd pretend to be dusting, but I was wondering."

He feels her chest rise and fall against his back. "Wondering what?"

"What it would feel like to touch you." Her hands slide under his shirt. "Whether you were sensitive to touch, as I am. What you would taste like." Her hands slide the shirt down, allowing it to fall. Her tongue draws a wet trail up his shoulder blade to the nape of his neck and then to his ear, where he's especially sensitive. Her teeth tug at his earlobe; her nose nuzzles the shell of his ear and he closes his eyes to concentrate on the sensations. "What sounds you would make as you undressed me."

"My sweet lady, I'd always assumed you didn't know about such base activities."

"I was innocent, but not naive. And from the moment you prevented my fall and I felt your arms around me for the first time, I awakened to desire. I wanted you to touch me, everywhere." Her voice goes husky. "If I had known then that you wanted me too, you wouldn't have gotten much spinning done."

He turns in her arms and admires the view. She hasn't slipped on her nightgown yet. "I was ugly then, in every way a man can be ugly, and now I'm that creature again."

"No," she insists. "You were endlessly fascinating and irresistibly handsome then, and now that I know the feel and the taste and the sounds of you, I want you more."

"You're looking through the eyes of love, sweetheart."

"And desire." She nips at the soft skin above his collarbone. "Whether you're Rumplestiltskin or Gold, both of you stir me. I still can't resist watching you and touching you."

"Dear heart, you know just what to say to boost a man's spirits." He reaches to turn out the lights, but she shakes her head–leaving the lights on is a common request from her, so she can watch his changing expressions as they touch. He leaves them on for her, and in a few minutes he forgets the image he saw in the mirror; all that matters is what he sees in her eyes.

* * *

><p>In the morning, Gold beats the sun in getting up. He has another court date at nine, but he can get in two solid hours of research before then. With one of his books and a legal pad tucked under his arm, he makes his way downstairs, but halts midway: there's a commotion in his study. He sets the book and the pad on the banister and, silencing his footfalls with a little magic, he approaches the study. Rather than open the door, he casts a spell that sets a window in its frame, enabling him to see into the room.<p>

Papers and books are strewn about. One of the African violets has been dug up from its pot. The drapes hang loosely from broken rings. And at the window overlooking the garden, Dove is throwing himself repeatedly against the pane.

Gold walks through the door without opening it. He flicks on a light, and then he can see smears of red staining Dove's feathers.

"Josiah?" The bird doesn't react to him; it continues to batter itself against the glass. "Josiah, stop. Come and tell me what's wrong." As Gold approaches slowly, the bird cries out and streaks across the room, perching on the highest bookshelf. "Josiah? Please come down. Let me help you."

The bird streaks across the room again, tossing itself at the window. Gold stops moving, stops speaking: everything he does seems to agitate the bird. Staring through the window, the dove flaps its wings and cries out.

Gold sends a gentle pulse of sedating magic at the bird. With a thud, the dove drops to the window sill. It shudders as Gold picks it up, tending its wounds with a healing spell. "Josiah, show me what's wrong." Gold strokes the feathers soothingly, tendrils of magic reaching through his fingertips and into the quavering body. He finds no illness to explain this mad behavior. He strokes the tiny head, sending another magical inquiry, and what he finds there makes him slump against the wall. "Damn it," he hisses. But what he means is "damn me."

An hour later, Belle finds them in the kitchen, Gold bent over his book and a cup of now-cold coffee. "My two favorite men in all the realms," she yawns, planting a kiss on the crown of Gold's head. Then she jerks awake as she notices Dove's position: the bird is trapped inside a wire cage.

"Why did you cage him?" She reaches for the little door of the cage, but Gold seizes her wrist.

"No, don't open that. He'll try to fly away, to join a flock."

"What are you talking about? He won't go anywhere. He wants us to change him back." She pulls away. "Jo, what's wrong?"

"Belle, he's—his reversion is complete," Gold stumbles in his explanation.

"I don't understand."

"His mind has. . .gone back to its natural state. To what it was before magic change—before _I_ changed him with magic. All his memories of being a human are gone." Gold's eyes plead with her for understanding, for patience and most of all, for forgiveness.

Because they both know whose fault this is.

* * *

><p>In the early evening, Belle and Gold drive out to the town line. No one has repaired the Welcome sign that Dove's Yukon knocked over, so Gold does it with a flick of his wrist. He then sets a box on the ground. "All right," he glances at his companion for encouragement: Belle nods, her features still as tight as they were this morning, but now less with anger than with worry. "The lamp, please, Belle." She fetches the golden lamp from the box and holds it in open hands. Gracefully, Gold floats his hand over the lamp and his magic transforms it into a catcher's mitt. Belle loops a string around the mitt, then sets the mitt onto the street and pushes it with a toe until it's across the borderline. A glow encompasses the glove as it's being pushed across the line; when the glow dissipates, the glove has transformed back into the genie lamp. With the string, Belle reels it back in: it remains a lamp.<p>

"The girdle, please." It's nothing like this world's girdles. It's worn on the outside as a symbol of rank: it's made of gold and carries a large diamond in the center. Rumple made the girdle as a thank-you gift for a warrior queen who had taught a teenage Baelfire archery, but the girdle came back to him years later when the queen died in battle.

Gold transforms it into a choo-choo train. As soon as it's pushed across the border, it reverts to its original form.

For the third experiment, Gold transforms a sword into a ducky pull-toy, but explains that the sword was enchanted by Regina in the Enchanted Forest; originally, it had been a horseshoe. When Belle pushes the ducky across, it transforms into a horseshoe.

Gold tests the curse with five more objects, achieving the same result. "Thinking about children?" Belle inquires, for all of his transformations have been toys. He admits, "Thinking of Bae."

Staring at his odd collection of objects, Gold rubs his chin and frowns. "So the curse doesn't just reverse the most recent spell; it reverses all the spells that have been enacted on the subject."

"So that's why Jo reverted to his original form. If I were to cross over, I would become Lady Belle," Belle says thoughtfully.

"And quite possibly, in a few hours, you'd lose all memory of your life in Storybrooke and the people you met here."

"But if you were to cross. . . because you had been transformed by magic already, this curse would take your magic, change you into Rumplestiltskin the Spinner."

"And if my theory is correct, I'd have no memory of anything that happened after I became the Dark One."

She blanches. "No memory of me."

"I'd forget you, sweetheart, but I think I'd have a feeling that something was missing. If I met you on the street, I wouldn't know you or anyone else I've met in the past three hundred years. I'd remember only Bae, because only my relationship with him predates the time when magic transformed me." Gold glares at the objects packed into the box. He raises his cane as though he'd smash the contents of the box, but he lowers it again. Smashing precious antiques–even though he can repair them with magic–really won't change anything, not even his mood.

"We can't leave, then. Even if we find Bae, we can't go to him." Belle slumps against the hood of the Caddy.

"I've come too far to let this stop me." Gold grits his teeth. "Too far to give him up—too far to let you go. There _is_ a way, or damn it, I'll make one."


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Footfalls on the first steps of the basement stairs draw Gold's attention away from his self-made chem kit. He declares, "I'd know those lovely ankles anywhere. Come on down, sweetheart, nothing foul-smelling or incendiary here today."

"Hello, Jo," Belle greets the bird in its cage, which hangs on a hook near the basement window. Gold sometimes talks to the bird as he works; he sees no indication that Josiah understands or even listens, but it eases Gold's guilty conscience somewhat. As she chatters to Dove, Belle's voice is edged with sympathy, for Dove hasn't settled into his captivity; he still batters his cage sometimes. Her presence helps calm him.

It's a warm spring evening, so Belle is wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. "Lawyer by day, sorcerer by night," she says as she approaches, cautiously avoiding the burners, beakers and tubes. "You could be DC Comics' next superhero." She's been getting to know Henry, since the boy is her beloved's grandson, and he's expanded her reading repertoire.

A month has passed since Dove's transformation, and while, to a centuries-old sorcerer, a month is the blink of an eye, to Belle, who was twenty-three when Regina cast the Storybrooke curse, it's a long time to wait. When not engaged in the research of magic, she has used the weeks to bond with the people she now considers kin, through her connection with Gold.

"Thank you, darling, but I'm afraid I'm no Batman." He sighs as his attention returns to the test tube in his hand. "Some days, I can't even compete with the Dark One I once was."

"No progress, then, today." She sets her hands on his shoulders and begins to massage–she knows exactly where he carries his tension.

"Should be simple: I isolated the section that created the barrier in the original written curse; I could just reverse it, but I don't have the ingredients, and I'm not having any luck developing synthetics. Charming and I raided Regina's house and vault this morning, but her supply was extremely limited. She may have taken most of it with her. Or perhaps she brought very little from the Enchanted Forest, since there was no reason to believe she'd ever get to use it here."

"There is one other master magic practitioner in town, and she _has_ been practicing."

"The Blue Fairy is not about to cooperate with the Dark One," he snorts.

"Perhaps not." Through Emma, Belle and Gold have learned that Mother Superior and her nuns have been drilling, fairy-militia style, in the expectation that either Regina will return with a vengeance or Rumplestiltskin will go berserk ("He's always been half-crazy, you know," Astrid confided to Emma. "And he's always blamed us for his problems." To which Emma responded with a quirked eyebrow.)

"But perhaps Mother Fairy would work with a bookworm." Belle's mouth purses in a mischievous little pucker. "I've been told the convent owns quite a large library. Surely Blue would have brought a supply of spell books from the old country, just out of habit."

"If so, I'm sure those books are hidden away, even from her nuns."

"One of the advantages to having been a maiden noblewoman is that people kind of trust me. They have a tendency to underestimate my dark side." She drums her fingernails on her arms. "I think I'll pay a neighborly visit to the convent on Monday; I'll take a picnic, because who would suspect a picnic bringer of nefarious motives? A platter of my Southern fried chicken, potato salad–and deviled eggs."

He wrinkles his nose. "I hate to see your Southern fried chicken wasted on that lot."

She winks at him. "I'll leave you a plate."

* * *

><p>The local media have been gifted, these past weeks, with much to report. As he and Belle watch the evening news before bed, Gold clicks his tongue over the latest, a "man on the street" story in which passersby are asked their thoughts concerning the boundary curse. "It does no one any favors to encourage people's imaginations to run wild."<p>

Belle purses her lips. "Rumple, do you suppose our radio or TV broadcasts reach the outside world?"

He blanches. "Gods. We'd better hope not." He's embarrassed that, in all the time he's lived in Storybrooke, he's given no thought to the media–other than to remind the Doves not to trust it, since Regina controlled it.

"And what we say on the Internet–not that many of us use it, but it seems likely that some of the ones who do will have talked about our situation." As Gold grabs his cane to stand, Belle reaches for her phone. "I'm adamantly opposed to censorship, but in this case, I think Emma's going to have to ask City Council for some controls." She pauses in her dialing to call after him as he walks away. "Where are you going, darling?"

"Basement. I've got a communications barrier to erect–right after I invent such a thing."

* * *

><p>"That insufferable, self-righteous, stick-up-her-a–oh, hi, Emma." Belle charges into the kitchen, where the sheriff and the wizard are sipping tea. There's a brown envelope lying beside Emma's cup.<p>

"Hi, Belle," Emma snickers. "Who put the burr under your saddle?"

"Oh," Belle tosses herself into a chair. "I went to the Blue Fairy for help with the boundary curse."

"I take it she said no."

"Not even to help Jo." Belle slaps the table, causing spoons and cups to rattle. "Jo, who's never done one single damn thing to her or her fairies. She said, 'Those who indulge in the dark arts should expect collateral damage. It's about time the Dark One took notice of the innocents his mischief has hurt.'"

Gold glares into his cup.

"Think it would help if the savior paid her a visit?" Emma offers. "Or Snow?"

Belle shrugs. "I don't know what would get through to that woman. Must be a heavy burden to always be right."

"I wouldn't know. That's one burden the Dark One has never had to carry," Gold smiles wryly.

Emma changes the subject. "Gold was just telling me about the communications dome he's developed."

"I'll erect it this afternoon. Not sure it'll be completely effective; this modern world has challenges that exceed any that any mage has ever encountered." He sighs; the circles beneath his eyes play witness to the long hours he's spent in his lab. It's left no time for work on the cure for the boundary curse, and his inability to look Dove in the eye reveals his guilty feelings about that.

"On a happier note," Emma drags the envelope forward and presents it to Gold. She sits back, grinning in anticipation of his reaction. "Now before I open this, I'm reminding you of my limits: I don't want Henry to find out anything about this."

He reads the first page, a printout. "13330 W. Gabriel #407." Then his tongue trips him up. "Manhatt–Emma." He reaches for the sheriff's hand. "Is this–"

"Yeah," Emma beams. "He goes by 'Neal Cassidy' now."

Gold's mouth drops open as he stares at the page, as if it's some sort of new spell.

Belle yahoos. "Thank you, Emma! Oh, thank you!" She runs to the sheriff's side to embrace her.

"Aye," Gold echoes. "Your debt to me is paid in full. Thank you, Emma."

"Well, turn that page. There's more," Emma instructs.

Gold clasps a hand to his mouth as he examines the other item, a color photograph of a man with a beard and salt-and-pepper hair. Under the photo is written "Neal Cassidy. B. 10-2-77. Asbury, New Jersey. Height 5 ft. 10. Weight 150. Occupation: electrician."

"Oh, my . . . ." Belle reaches out a finger to touch the image, as if she's stroking Neal's cheek.

"He's a man now," Gold manages. "He's tall." He seems alternately mesmerized by the photo and dismayed. "Thirty-five! All those years I missed. What must he think of me? Growing up alone, all those years alone, an orphan." His eyes light for a moment with a thought. "Emma, did he ever mention me?"

The sheriff looks down at the table.

Gold pushes. "Not my name, of course, that would've been ridiculous—'My dad is Rumplestiltskin, yes, the fairytale villain'—but didn't he ever mention _anything_ about his father?"

Emma tries to unburden her answer. "I'm sure he must have missed you, like I missed my parents, even though I never met them. But we never talked about our pasts, just the future."

His hand twitches with magic and he begins to talk rapidly. "I can fix it. I have to fix it. Magic can take away the pain. It can't change the past but it can alter memories. And I can turn back the biological clock; I—"

"No, you can't," Emma interjects. "Listen to me, Gold: you'll just make a worse mess if you try to 'fix things.' Just ask Snow. You have to accept the situation for what it is. Take it as a whole new start, because you can't pick up from where you left off and you can't fix it, even with all your magic. It is what it is."

"I think she's right," Belle adds. "If you want a relationship with him at all, it has to be as one adult to another. You can never be his papa again, but you can be his father, if you can see him as the man he is, instead of your little boy."

Emma changes the subject into one less emotionally dangerous, more hopeful. "Something I've been wondering. So Fairytale Land people can't leave here, but can they come here? I mean, we know outsiders can't get in, but I was born in the Enchanted Forest and I got into Storybrooke."

"That was before the new boundary curse. If you're thinking of bringing Bae here, we don't know what the new curse may do to him, if anything." Yet the tiredness in Gold's eyes fades, replaced with a faint hope. "We can't risk it."

"And with the communications block, we can't speak to him," Belle adds.

"Not as ourselves, anyway, but. . . . " Gold closes his eyes. "If Gold's Pawnshop were to phone Neal Cassidy. . .as long as I didn't say anything about the Enchanted Forest or magic. . . as long as I didn't slip and call him 'son'. . . ."

"Just to hear his voice after three hundred years," Belle speculates. "What a gift that would be. An inspiration."

Emma's voice quavers as she dials her phone. "Hi. I'd like a number in Soho, New York. A listing for Neal Cassidy, please."

Gold clears his throat before putting the phone on speaker and dialing the number Emma's written on the printout. He carefully sets the phone between him and Belle. "Hello? This is Gold's Antiquities in Maine, calling for Neal Cassidy."

"Yeah. That's me."

Emma's eyes widen, and then Gold knows—all at once he knows for sure that's Bae on the other end, and the woman sitting here at the kitchen table once knew Bae and loved him and bore his son and might still care.

Gold grips Belle's hand. "Mr. Cassidy, I'm calling to verify an order that was placed online, for a handmade woolen shawl, circa 1832."

"Nope. That wasn't me."

"You didn't? Perhaps someone in your household-?"

"No 'household' here, pal. Sorry, don't know how it happened, but it's a mistake."

Belle mouths to Emma: "He's not married."

"Well, thank you, we'll correct the error. Sorry to disturb. Good day, Mr. Cassidy."

Gold drops the phone, stands abruptly and hurries from the room. Behind him, he hears Belle say, "Until now, all he's had to go on was faith."

* * *

><p>"What made you change your mind?" Belle asks as she ties his necktie for him.<p>

"Emma. If she can put aside her anger, I guess I can too." Gold avoids making eye contact with her. It's hard enough opening up to her like this; though she has a way about her that elicits openness from most people, he's kept his secrets so long, he finds frankness extraordinarily difficult. She's had to remind him many times that emotional vulnerability is not unmanly or weak. He's learning the trust required to let her in, just as she's learning the patience not to push.

"Should I come with you?"

A relieved yes forms on his lips, but he knows her presence would diminish the import of what he's about to do, actually make him appear less strong in the enemy's eyes. "Thank you, but no. Got to do this _mano_ _a_ _mano_."

"What will you offer her?"

He gave this a lot of thought last night, with the memory of his son's deep, Jersey accent and his might-have-been daughter-in-law's raw pain still fresh. So much hurt Emma and Bae put each other through: Gold knows only a sliver of that story, but still, he suspects pride from the Charming side of the family and secrecy from the Stiltskin side as the main culprits.

Perhaps those same culprits have blown the Dark One-Reul Ghorm feud out of proportion. He has to find out.

"An apology," he answers.

Belle's mouth drops open. He takes the opportunity to kiss it.

And so he drives alone to the convent and he waits, choosing not to be insulted by being kept waiting on the porch, for, frankly, he's given the nuns no reason to welcome him as a guest. When one of the sisters, after eyeing him up and down, opens the door to him and escorts him to Mother Superior's office, he merely thanks her. For Josiah, for Bae, for Emma, who needs closure with Bae, one way or another, and for Henry, who needs to meet his father, which can only happen if Emma and Bae talk out their anger. It's time for Rumplestiltskin to set an example.

The sister does not close the office door behind her: she won't trust him alone with Mother Superior. She steps out, but he doesn't hear her walk away.

Mother Superior, in her cardigan and cross, looks up at him. She's so small behind her very big mahogany desk. Small and old and powerful, like he is.

Her eyes widen for a second. At first he's puzzled, then he recalls she hadn't crossed paths with him since he brought magic to Storybrooke; he must look odd to her, with Rumplestiltskin's wild hair and sparkly skin, yet Gold's Armani and his cane, still limping a little–he will heal his leg only after Bae has forgiven him. Probably, someone had informed her of his transformation, but the incongruence of his two looks must be startling just the same. She collects herself. "Hello, Rumplestiltskin." She doesn't offer a seat.

"Good morning, Reul Ghorm."

"Belle told me what you want. I suppose you've come to make a threat disguised as a deal." The fairy-nun's voice ices her words. "To not raise my rent if I loan you my books, is that it?"

"I've read the book that your order lives by," he begins.

"I find that hard to believe."

He ignores the slight. "One passage especially stood out for me. 'Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened to you.' I'm asking, Reul Ghorm, for your forgiveness, for the war I waged against your kind and the rage I unleashed against you. I'm seeking your help in undoing the harm I've caused my friend and my son. I'm knocking," he looks around the office, "at the door of this place your book calls a place of reconciliation."

"This is a new low for you, Rumplestiltskin, to use the Bible to try to manipulate me." She's trembling with anger.

He has to think for a moment: he's never bothered to try to see her point of view before, so he has no knowledge of how to get through to her. "Reul Ghorm, if you know one thing about me, you must know that my son and Belle mean more to me than all the world."

"The fact that you chose your dagger over Baelfire proves you're lying."

"I've devoted my existence since then to searching for him so I can tell him I'm sorry," he snaps.

"Nothing you've done in all these years shows an attempt to be a better man, or even a shadow of remorse. You're the Dark One, no matter how fashionably you dress or how many lines of Scripture you memorize." She walks around her desk to square off with him. "You're the personification of evil and that makes you incapable of repentance. You're the master of deceit. You aren't seeking forgiveness from anybody!"

"This is impossible," he mutters and turns away. But from the corner of his eye, he catches a movement at her window, and he pauses to look more fully: a sparrow has alighted on the sill and is resting there. He watches it a moment, remembering: _Not_ _a_ _sparrow_ _falls_. . . .

He has to try again.

He turns back to Blue and offers the only tangible proof of his sincerity he has: he reaches into his chest and with a shudder, for the pain is intense, removes his heart. He holds it in his open palm for her to see. Suspicious but irresistibly curious, Blue approaches just close enough to see.

Except for a black blotch in the center, the heart is bright red.

She raises startled eyes to his. She knows as well as he does, the heart of the Dark One should be black as pitch.

"For Josiah's sake, and Belle's and Bae's, help me, Reul Ghorm."

She takes a step back, leaning against her big desk for support. "I may have some books that will answer your questions."


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The ancient fairy sends a testing tendril of magic to wrap around his open hand and worm its way into his heart. His magic senses the intrusion and would fight it off, but he forces a stillness over his body. As her magic retreats, he tells her what she's just learned: "No glamour here, Blue. This," he turns the heart about to inspect it, "is the real deal, unadulterated."

"A recent development, I'm sure." She pulls a mouth.

"Ah. In the lifetime of one such as us, yes. A slow process that began with regret and, I hope, will end with enlightenment. This happened not because of me," he nods at the heart; "I fought like hell to stay dark. But little by little, they've worn me down: Baelfire, then Belle, Josiah, Adelena–and these days, Emma and Henry have been getting to me too."

"There's still a great deal of blackness at the center; it will never go away," Blue challenges him.

He's tempted to throw the challenge back at her by inviting her to present her own heart for inspection: he suspects they'd find a spot or two on it. But he's here to make peace, and he won't see Bae again unless he does. He takes his heart back into his body. The tremendous magical energy expended in removing one's own heart, one of the most complex and risky of all stunts, leaves him drained and vulnerable. She knows that, though it's a stunt she's never attempted: she's never been one for rolling the dice with her magic. His face is ashen as he agrees with her. "Of course. The damage I've done, and how I've felt–or haven't felt–about the misery I caused will never disappear from the world. But I loved and was loved in spite of myself."

"You don't deserve that." She gestures to his chest.

"No, you're right; I don't. But I've started to see that I need it." Although she still hasn't offered him a seat, he takes one before his knees buckle. He rests his forehead against his palm. "Will you give me and Belle access to your library?"

The fairy returns to her chair. She is weighing her options: she believes him but doesn't trust him, and she doesn't try to hide her doubt.

"As long as the curse remains, no one can leave Storybrooke," he reminds her. "Blue, there are more than three hundred children in this town."

He needn't connect he dots for her: she draws in a deep breath. "Yes, I see. It's not 'if,' but 'when.' When some foolish or unsuspecting child crosses the town line. . . .To forget their lives here, the people they've lived with for thirty years–"

"The people who still love them, even though, in the Enchanted Forest, they didn't belong together." He allows her to hear how tired he is. "I can tell you from direct observation, the bonds within the false families that the Storybrooke curse forced together are just as strong as the biological ties. The Storybrooke curse did a tremendous amount of damage, ripping families apart, but the boundary curse would do the same, in reverse."

"I've heard about the legal work you've been doing," she says. "I've seen some of the results. I realize it must have required a great deal of negotiation and finesse to keep families intact."

"It's in your hands, whether this second curse is broken."

"There are no guarantees. Surely you realize that; a curse that's never existed before, in a land that's new to magic–it'll be guesswork at best."

"Educated guesswork," he corrects. "Between us, we must have, what? Eight hundred years of experience?"

"Didn't your mother teach you, Rumplestiltskin, it's rude to ask a lady's age?"

"No mother, and my father wasn't too concerned with etiquette. But I shall try to behave less crudely while we work together." A question is implied in his statement.

She makes a quick decision. "I'll put two of the sisters to work on the research."

"And Belle and me?"

"You will have access to the library. There is a small supply of fairy diamonds, deep in the abandoned mine. We will use them, if additional power is called for."

"How soon can we start?"

"After lunch. You and Belle are invited to dine with us. It's Spaghetti Day."

He can see how heavily this cooperation taxes her. To ally herself with the Dark One goes against everything she's taught or been taught. "Thank you, Reul Ghorm." He reaches for his phone. "I'll call Belle."

* * *

><p>Throughout the meal, the nuns silently and openly suspiciously stare at their guests. As Gold passes a platter of garlic bread to her, Belle whispers, "Would it be rude to talk? Do they have a noontime vow of silence or something?"<p>

"I'm entirely the wrong one to ask about that," he whispers back. "But the looks on their faces suggest anger, not meditation."

"Okay," she passes the platter on to the nun seated at her left. "So, Sister Bernadette, how large is your library? And is it arranged by Dewey or LC?"

"They're arranged by me. There is no Sister Dewey or Sister Elsie here. Our convent library is approximately two thousand volumes," the nun answers. "I'm not familiar with the magic library."

"Reverend Mother?" Belle's voice is so sweet and her manner so polite, Gold doesn't see how the nuns could possibly continue to distrust her, but their stares show they do. She will wear them down, he's confident–just as she did the Dark One.

"That particular collection consists of probably a thousand volumes, many of them handwritten and difficult to read; many of them in languages no longer spoken." The fairy sips her ice water. "No longer spoken in the old world, I mean; never spoken here. The books and tablets and scrolls are organized by a system I designed myself. I do have a handwritten index."

"That will help tremendously," Belle compliments her. "If you like, I can create a simple database for that index, so it can be searched by relative terms. And as for the languages, I used to have a reading knowledge of three ancient languages. I'm rusty, but. . . ."

"And then there's always Google Translate," Gold pipes up, earning glares. "Ahem. Actually, I can help there. I've had a great many years to accumulate languages."

Blue offers this tidbit: "I have four tablets that were written by Dusta."

His fork freezes on its journey to his mouth, but his tone remains level. "How did you come by those?" A "dearie" hangs invisible on the end of the question. A chill has fallen over the room.

"Acquired in battle." Blue holds back a smirk. "I won."

"I see. Will you permit me to read them?"

"They contain nothing relevant to our purpose," Blue says, but as his face darkens, she surprises him. "But yes, you may borrow them to read at your leisure."

"Who's Dusta?" Belle asks.

"The first Dark One." Gold preoccupies himself with his spaghetti.

"Oh. . . ."

"The tablets may interest you for another reason, Belle," Blue suggests. "They are among the oldest written documents in existence and the first written record of magic, written, it's believed, a few years before Dusta died."

"How did he die? Wasn't he immortal?"

"The way all Dark Ones do," Gold says.

"Not quite. At least, not according to our legends," Bernadette explains. "He was slain by a fairy."

Gold's and Belle's heads snap up. "But if you kill a Dark One, you become the Dark One," Belle says slowly.

"As we found out the hard way. To this day, we consider the second Dark One both an enemy and a martyr. When the dark powers came upon her, nothing was left of the Black Fairy. She became as evil as Dusta."

"Not entirely true. Something of her fairy heart remained," Blue argues. "She fought against the darkness and it drove her mad. She found a mercenary and gave him the dagger so he could kill her."

"Vyapari. The first of the dealmakers," Gold mutters. "Contrary to popular belief, I was not the first to sell acts of magic. Though Vyapari did it for amusement. He was also the first to be enslaved."

"And so it was with every Dark One until the present one," Blue reports. "Enslaved to a human for all or most of their days."

"Always a less clever, less imaginative human," Gold speculates. "I've often wondered about that. How did ignoramuses like the Duke of the Frontlands manage to gain control of the likes of Zoso?"

"Fortunately for the world, the Dark masters were fixated on acquiring wealth, land, titles. As you say, none of them seemed to have the imagination to seek world domination," Blue muses.

Awareness fills Gold's eyes. "_You._"

"Actually, my predecessor, twice removed."

Belle cocks her head. "Sorry, I'm lost here. What about Blue's predecessor?"

"The Reul Ghorms figured out that a Dark One enslaved to a dimwit would do less damage than one unchained." Gold tightens his grip on his fork and the magic in his fingers flares. He forces himself to bear in mind that this is all history now. They are not in the Forest and his dagger is safe in his own possession, as it always has been. His magic recedes.

"It worked well for centuries, until Zoso in his impatience chose you instead of the one we intended."

Gold slowly raises his eyes to Blue. "Zoso _cooperated_ with you?"

"Well, he didn't know he was; none of the Dark Ones were aware of our behind-the-scenes efforts. You weren't the only mage with. . .social engineering skills. The Reul Ghorms had that skill too. But Zoso was borderline insane, and so he grabbed the easiest desperate soul at hand, instead of Hordor, as we had intended."

"Hordor?! Hordor was to have been the next Dark One?"

"Even as a human, Hordor needed someone to control him. We would have done the Flatlands a favor to remove him from a position of some power and place him entirely under another's control. We had planned for Reginald the Gambler and his descendants to fill that role."

Belle gasps. "My father is the great-grandson of Duke Reginald."

Blue smiles kindly. "Sir Maurice would have been the least greedy of all Dark masters, we felt. He would have accepted the dagger from his father only when he saw no other way to end the Second Ogres War. But Zoso was too impatient to wait for Hordor to work up the nerve to steal the dagger."

Gold chuckles in surprise. "So I became the Dark One because I was bolder than Hordor?"

Belle clasps her hand to her mouth. "My gods. If you hadn't become the Dark One, my father would have been a Dark master. Rumple, you saved my father twice."

"No, my love, don't redefine my act of cowardice as something noble. I stole the dagger out of fear; I killed Zoso out of anger. But that's history; the present time presents us with enough of a problem."

Blue takes the hint and rises from her seat; her sisters follow suit and begin to clear the table. "Sister Bernadette, Sister Cecilia, please come with us. Rumplestiltskin, Lady Belle, this way please."

Gold ponders as the nuns lead him down a long corridor: if, when he wrote the lease, he'd realized just how big this building was, he would have charged more rent.

Belle too is pondering. "It must have been lonely," she whispers to him. "The fairies had each other, but you were the only Dark One. All the others like you were dead."

He squeezes her hand. "You were right, all those years ago: it wasn't a caretaker I needed; it was a friend. Only you could befriend the Dark One."

When they arrive at a small, locked room filled ceiling-to-floor with books, Belle rushes in, chattering with Bernadette about classification systems and archival finding aids. Gold summons Belle's laptop from home and the nuns shudder at the release of dark magic in their home. Blue counters it with a wave of her wand that causes the uppermost books to fly down to the carpet for easy access.

As Bernadette, Cecelia and Belle dig in, Blue offers an olive branch to Gold. "We–I–came to realize you were right about one thing: we shouldn't have given away our magic so freely. Now it's almost gone."

"You needn't limit yourselves to fairy dust. There are many other sources of power."

"Fairy dust is more than our tradition; it's our identity."

"One can change one's identity without losing the true sense of self, just as you became a nun and I, a pawnbroker."

"I suppose we have no choice but to learn spells and potions." She seems saddened. "We must prepare in case Regina comes back and taps into the magic here."

"Direct combat may not be the most effective way to stop Regina. If she comes back, it'll be for something she cares about more than magic." Now it's Gold's turn to seem saddened, for he's always had a fondness for Henry, and now that he knows the boy's bloodline, it's even more difficult to place him at risk. "There is only one sure defense against Regina."

"Surely not even you would sacrifice Henry!"

"No, Reul Ghorm, but I would strengthen him so that he can stop her."

"You're going to teach him magic."

"No. I'm going to teach _Emma_ magic, if she'll accept it. I'm going to teach Henry his lineage." Gold sighs. "Just as soon as we break this boundary curse, I'm going to restore his father to him. As soon as I can figure out how to do it without breaking my promise to Emma."

* * *

><p>Belle gives him a funny look as he climbs into bed.<p>

"What?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Do I have a cowlick?"

She shakes her head. "You were singing in the shower."

"Was it that bad?" But he knows she's not laughing at him.

"It's the first time I've ever heard you sing."

He slides under the sheets and clutches her waist. "I respect music too much to desecrate it like that. But today I couldn't resist. It was a good day." He lays his damp head in her lap. "The fairies are cooperating with us, Emma's working for us, and I've spoken to my son, even if he didn't know it was his father calling. I know he's alive and I know where he resides."

She smooths his hair. "It won't be much longer now."

He lifts his head. "Hey, I just remembered: you were singing too, on the way home from the convent. Something on the radio–one of this world's many songs about a subject they know nothing about."

She grins at him mischieviously. "Yes, but I can carry a tune without using a bucket."

"Well, I _could_ make some modifications: how would you like to be serenaded by Curuso? Pavarotti? Bing Crosby? Freddy Mercury?"

"No thanks. I'll take your voice, flat as it may be, because it's yours." She stretches her legs and sighs in satisfaction. "It was a good day. I enjoyed working in Blue's library. I enjoy having a role in this world that challenges me intellectually, makes me feel like I'm making things better."

"You may not have realized it, but when you were my housekeeper, you made me better."

"I did, and I was so glad you chose me for the job–both times." She urges him up for a kiss. "Then and now, you've given me a life of adventure and a chance to make a difference in the world."

"Is that why you put up with me?" he teases.

"That, and you look sexy as all get-out in those leather pants."

He whispers in her ear, just before his teeth snatch the lobe, "And you look sexy as all get-out in the altogether." He yanks the sheets away.

* * *

><p><strong>AN. I'm imagining Belle singing Katy Perry's "Dark Horse"–so deliciously Rumbellic. Coming up: an opportunity for revenge pops up when Regina returns; our researchers learn the price of breaking the new curse and it's higher than Gold is willing to pay.**


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Belle packs a suitcase and he carries it to her Honda, placing it in the trunk. His face is frozen in anger as she slides behind the steering wheel.

"I promise," she says for the seventh time that day. "Just as soon as Bernie and I have got the library in an order we can work with. Blue's system may make sense for her, but Bernie and Ceecee and I can't make sense of it."

"You could come home in the evenings. The convent's only ten minutes away." They went round and round about this last night, when, dragging in bleary-eyed at eleven o'clock, she announced her plan to move into the convent so she could devote herself completely to the magic library. They went round and round again at breakfast–even as he dished up pancakes for her (and he still hates pancakes). They had another round as she threw jeans and t-shirts (Belinda's cleaning outfits, he remembers fondly) into a suitcase (one of a set they'd bought in anticipation of driving to New York). He's already plotting to phone her at dinnertime to resume the argument. Yet, he's sort of flattered to watch her drive away from him; in a backwards sort of way, leaving him is an expression of her loyalty to him, her devotion to his cause, and her faith in their ability to succeed.

Still, he can't help playing the petulant husband, just so she'll know how much he needs her. Hand on the porch rail, he catches himself: _husband_. Since when did his subconscious add that term to his auto-response vocabulary?

It's too soon. The ink's barely dried on the divorce decree. Bae hasn't been reclaimed.

No, none of that makes it too soon. Nor is their love new or untested–for crying out loud, it's been dragged to hell and back; there can be no doubt it's going to last. Nor does he fear rejection if he proposes. What does make it too soon is the caged dove in the basement. Gold needs to know Josiah will be okay when he finally, completely, permanently takes Bindy away from him, and Belle would feel the same need.

So he climbs the stairs, goes back inside and closes the door, and rests on his cane a moment before picking up the box of bird seed and proceeding to the basement. As he opens the cage, the bird flutters its wings but makes no attempt to escape. He fills the dish with seed, checks the water dishes and changes the litter and the liner paper, then closes the cage. "Josiah, are you in there?" he asks, as he does every morning. The bird cracks a seed and ignores him.

He sighs, reviewing his lab notes from yesterday, trying to find his error–hoping he's made an error; that the failure isn't the fault of the magic. Errors he can fix; weakness in the magic, probably not. When he can find no human mistake, he slams his pencil down. He's out of ideas, and for Rumplestiltskin, that's a very uncomfortable place to be. He sits at his spinning wheel, fills his hand with wool and empties his conscious mind, redirecting his energy to the subconscious. He spins and waits for an idea.

* * *

><p>Emma wakes him at sunrise, pounding on his front door.<p>

"The Charming Family Curse: not one of you seems capable of sleeping past six a.m.," Gold grumbles, but he stands aside so she can enter.

She pauses in the foyer to sniff, then frown. "What, no coffee? Is Belle sick?" She proceeds to the kitchen without waiting for a reply and pours water into the coffeemaker. Only when she can breathe in coffee is she ready to hear his explanation.

"So you're bachin' it, huh?" She inspects the kitchen. "Place is awfully clean considering you've been solo nearly a week. Been living off pizza delivery? Haven't seen you at Granny's."

"Magic." He demonstrates by changing his pajamas into day clothes. He leaves his face unshaven, though: he likes his stubble.

"Hmm, that's one trick I wouldn't mind learning."

"Scrambled or over easy?" He sets a skillet on the stove. "Speaking of tricks, Ms. Swan, we ought to talk about establishing a regular schedule of lessons–"

"Over easy. I'll start the bacon. And no."

"This little respite we have from Regina is bound to be short-lived."

With a flick of her wrist, she produces her Smith and Wesson. "This is all the magic I–"

With a flick of his wrist, he transforms the handgun into a spatula.

She shrugs and opens the refrigerator. "Well, maybe."

"As soon as I've broken the boundary curse. Three times a week, two hours a day." He waves an egg at her. "At a _reasonable_ hour of the morning, Ms. Swan."

Dropping slices of bacon into the skillet, she grins at him. "Aw, come on, Gold, admit it: you love my morning visits. I always bring you something nice, don't I?"

"No bagels or envelopes today, I see," he grouses.

Her grin fades and she sits down, forgetting about the bacon. He cracks four eggs into the sizzling skillet. But when the teasing disappears from her tone, he glances over his shoulder at her. "Yeah, I thought I'd show you something you've seen before but probably never really noticed."

Her hand moves to the swan necklace she wears everyday. He's wondered about it; it seems to hold significance to her beyond symbolizing her name. She carefully removes the necklace and lays it out on the table. "This isn't really a necklace; it's a keychain. There's a story that goes with this. It concerns your son, so I figure you should hear it."

Her eyes are glistening. He asks softly, "A sad story, I take it."

"The middle part is," she admits. "Don't know the ending yet." She motions to the stove. "The bacon's burning."

With a wave of his hand, he makes the skillet disappear and a breakfast appear on the table. Touching the keychain with the tip of a finger, he asks his magic to show him the faces of those who have held this in the past. There are only four: Emma, a convenience store clerk, a blue-eyed, bearded man whom Gold recognizes as the lying August Booth, and a brown-eyed man with a heart-melting grin. "Bae."

"We met when we tried to steal the same car."

Gold sits down beside her, breakfast forgotten.

* * *

><p>She helps him stack the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. "Hope you get a breakthrough today," she offers as he walks her to the porch.<p>

He's tempted to say they've already had one; if Belle were here, she'd be praising Emma for her bravery in confronting her past. But he sees the same emotional walls built up in Emma that have protected him, so he respects them by not pushing against them. His eyes fall to the keychain, which she's wearing again, and by it he knows, just as she does, that her heart's already decided whether to see her ex-lover again; she's just waiting for her stubborn mind to catch up.

"Thanks, Emma, for the story."

"I owed you one." She climbs into her Bug. "Next time, though, expect donuts."

* * *

><p>"Hi, honey, I'm home!" Belle giggles as her suitcase drops to the carpet.<p>

He jumps up from his desk and hobble-runs across the study and into her open arms. "Sweetheart!" Then he pulls back suspiciously. "Wait, are you just back for some fresh clothes or are you here to stay?"

"Oh, Rumple, I'm always here to stay; haven't you realized that yet? But we got the library in order and I designed a database, so tomorrow we'll begin developing a thorough index from Blue's rather sketchy one. I can start bringing some of the more likely books home to read in the evenings."

He rewards her answer with a kiss.

* * *

><p>Gold's had a copy made of the photo Emma gave him. Never mind it's a bit blurry: it's Bae. Gold keeps the copy in an antique frame on his desk in the study; the original he hangs in the kitchen. He doesn't admit to Belle that sometimes he squints at the photo, pretending Bae is there, having breakfast or dinner. "Pass the toast, Dad."<p>

And if Bae's there for a meal, Emma and Henry must be too. Such a crowded, messy kitchen, but Belle won't mind at all. Such a noisy house, after thirty years of silence, but Gold won't mind at all. The neighbors might complain about four cars crowding the curb; if they do, Gold will just buy them out. The house next door will make a nice wedding present for Bae and Emma.

He doesn't share this daydream with Belle; she'd worry that he was getting ahead of himself, expecting too much. Bae has a life of his own in New York: no wife or kids, but he does have a career, an apartment, probably friends. But after three hundred years, with Bae just 500 miles and a curse away, Gold needs the daydreams as much as he needs his cane.

The pawnshop is closed now. Gold seldom bothers to check on it. His law practice slows, most of the disputes having been settled. He and Belle are free to devote themselves to research, he usually in his basement lab, she in the convent library.

A dramatic step forward occurs when Blue walks up to the pink house to deliver a plant she's discovered in the woods. Belle has taken a break from the research to drive out at the ranch house; she's cleaning it in the expectation that someday soon Jo will return there, so Gold is alone at home. He's polite to Blue anyway, offering her coffee. She gives him the plant, which she's discovered has properties similar to those of an Enchanted Forest plant he needs.

As they discuss the formula he's testing today, he makes a momentous decision: he invites her into his basement. She accepts. She knows nothing about labs, but she realizes that if her tribe is to continue practicing magic, she must broaden her base of resources. He gives her an introductory lesson in potion-making.

It's a moment that, in the old country, no Seer would have predicted. For the first time in all of history, the leader of the forces of light magic is working, unreservedly, alongside the master of dark magic, exchanging information, receiving instruction. The import of the moment is not lost on either of them, though the setting seems disappointingly inauspicious: this meeting should be happening in the grand Dark Castle, at least, instead of an unfinished, musty basement with a single bald light bulb overhead.

To mark the occasion, though he doesn't say so, he teaches her how to concoct an invisibility potion. It might come in handy against Regina, he suggests; besides, the ingredients are plentiful in the Storybrooke woods. He throws in a basket of Belle's cream puffs as a bonus.

"I think we've just made history," Blue acknowledges when he escorts her to the porch. "Good night, Rumplestiltskin."

"Good night, Blue." He watches her drive away. The incongruity strikes him as hilarious: the oldest, most powerful leader of light magic, dressed in a JC Penney's cardigan and skirt, is driving away in an '07 Corolla from a summit meeting with the oldest, most powerful leader of dark magic, in his basement.

"No progress today on breaking the curse, Josiah," he reports as he sprinkles seed into the bowl, "but very big progress in diplomacy, I think."

The bird ignores him.

That night, Belle catches him singing in the shower again. She pulls off her clothes, climbs in and starts singing with him.

* * *

><p>"Damn it!" Gold kicks the box of trinkets with his right foot, spilling its contents across the town line; his ankle will ache the rest of the day, but so what. Except punishing the box doesn't make the disappointment go away.<p>

"We'll try again tomorrow, Rumplestiltskin." The Blue Fairy touches his sleeve lightly in empathy; she's put in some long, frustrating hours too, in the library, in his lab and in the woods, hunting ingredients. A little spark of magic jumps from her hand through his shirt and pierces his skin: it feels like a cocklebur. Despite the history they've been making this month, it's still unhealthy for him to stand close to her for more than an hour or two; she, however, seems immune to him. "I was thinking, if we used wood instead of gas to heat the potion—?"

He nods dully. "Yes. You're right. We should limit ourselves to natural elements as much as possible. I suppose I've lived in the modern world a bit too long and forgot how to do things the old-fashioned way."

"Tomorrow at nine, then."

"Tomorrow."

She flicks her wrist and disappears. He smiles half-heartedly: at least she's no longer dependent on fairy dust. If she keeps practicing, someday she'll be as versatile as he is.

He stares at his shirt sleeve as he realizes this was the first time in their centuries-old acquaintance that she ever touched him. Still, he'd gladly trade this political progress for progress with the curse—in a New York minute.

* * *

><p>Gold receives an urgent dawn call from the sheriff's office. This time, he knows it can't be good news. Belle drives, for his ankle's swollen and he can't tolerate the pressure of braking or accelerating; besides, Gold is jumpy, lest the news concern some injury to Bae; he's been on edge ever since finding "electrician" on an Internet list of the Top Ten Most Dangerous Jobs (apparently the list writer hadn't heard of the occupation "Dark One").<p>

The Early Morning Charmings are already gathered in Emma's office. Belle exchanges greetings with Snow and David, but Emma's scrunched up over her desktop monitor, her fingers stabbing at keys, and so doesn't notice the hellos. Gold wastes no time. "Is this about Neal Cassidy?"

The guilty looks on the Charmings' faces indicate that they recognize the name—and therefore realize Gold is kind of a relative now. Or not, depending on how technical one wants to get about baby mommas and daddies. He may be due inclusion for his new status as a family member, and a begrudging mutual respect for his civic efforts, both legal and magical, but that doesn't mean he's earned trust. For his part, Gold doesn't give a damn what they think of him, as long as they don't keep Henry away from Bae.

"No," Emma says. "It's about the surveillance cameras we installed at every road leading into town." She swings her monitor around and punches some keys. "It's about this."

The grainy footage, time stamped 0509, shows a dark Mercedes rolling up FM 11, which leads into northern Storybrooke from the west. If the car keeps rolling, the first building it will pass will be the convent. But the car suddenly stops and the driver gets out. She shoves her hands into her pockets and surveys the horizon, then studies the ground, then her blood-red lips part and her teeth flash in anger. She paces up and down, up and down, her jet-black hair and her black Chanel suit almost making her invisible in the night, except for her pale face. After several minutes she stops, faces the surveillance camera—though it's hidden in a road sign, she seems to realize it's there—and glares. Her hands slip from her pockets and rise in the air until her arms are extended as far as she can reach. She throws her head back, closes her eyes and breathes in deeply.

She's frozen in this posture for a solid five minutes. At last she sneers, kicks her front tire, climbs back into her car and drives away, back the way she came.

"Regina's here for Henry," Emma surmises.

"And maybe to finish her attack on Mary Margaret," David frets.

"What I'm wondering about is what she was doing for five minutes, just standing there with her arms up," Emma ponders.

Gold has the answer. "It's not just Henry she's here for. She's just found out we have magic."


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

"Why did she turn around and leave, then? Why didn't she come into town?" David asks.

"She was acting like she was looking for something," Emma speculates. "And didn't find it."

"The town," Gold replies. "The original curse created a barrier around the town so passersby wouldn't be able to see it. All they could see was an empty field."

"But Emma broke the curse," Snow objects.

Gold merely shrugs. "This is just a guess, but perhaps that part of the curse remains."

"If that's true, we dodged a bullet," David smiles.

"Temporarily," Snow corrects him. "Regina will be back as soon as she figures out a way through." She turns to Gold. "Is there?"

"The original curse created a tight, unbreakable barrier, but it did allow for two people to pass through: she who would break the curse and he who enable her to do so."

"Emma and Henry," David says. "What if one of them left town and came back in? Could Regina grab onto them and follow them in?"

"Not under the original curse."

"But if it's been weakened or altered when magic was introduced here," Emma prompts.

Gold shrugs. "We would do well to prepare for Regina's possible arrival."

Snow straightens, her mouth tight. "Henry's at school."

"Come on." David yanks the office door open.

"Wait a sec. I want him someplace Regina would never think to look." Emma glances at Gold, who nods. David frowns in confusion at this nonverbal exchange, but Snow, drawing in a deep breath, casts the final vote: "It makes sense."

"What does?" David scowls. Then he gets it: "Oh, you're not thinking–Emma, if you knew half of what this man's done–"

"He's got magic–what do you call 'em?–things up around his house, protecting it."

"Wards," Gold supplies.

"And Belle's there," Snow points out. "Henry adores her. He'll feel safe with her."

Gold raises his chin. "He's my son's son. I'll protect him with all I have, just as you will."

"Fine," David relents. "We'll take him there."

Emma stands but gestures to the monitor, "I'll call Leroy: we'll need someone to watch the monitors. Until he can get here, though. . . ."

"Go," Gold insists. "I'll oversee the cameras and phone you if I see Regina."

"You don't know how to operate them, do you?"

Gold flicks a finger: the images in the six little windows displayed on the screen shift angles. "I can manage."

"I'll get some additional eyes in the sky," Snow suggests. "As soon as we step outside."

David grins with pride. "In a minute every bird in the county will be looking for Regina." He and Snow beat it outside.

"Emma, Regina won't hurt Henry," Gold adds. "She loves him. But make no mistake: she won't let anyone stand in her way."

"She's got me and three pissed-off grandparents to go through first," Emma declares.

"And an army of nun-fairies and a sassy Aussie who's been reading a lot of magic books." Gold reaches for his phone as Emma, grabbing her S & W, runs after her parents.

* * *

><p>Within 30 minutes, roadblocks have been established at every entrance into town; watchful birds circle the skies; fishermen patrol the waterways; school has been dismissed and the city council has called for an immediate curfew for all minors. From the sheriff's office, Gold watches the surveillance cameras and keeps in touch with Blue, whose subordinates patrol the woods in groups of three (he can't help chuckling at the image of scowling, wand-carrying nuns trampling through the Forest in search of the town mayor); he also checks in with Belle, who, along with Snow, has the pink house barricaded. Emma and David are cruising alleys and side streets in the squad car.<p>

One of the birds scanning the skies is Josiah.

Gold balked when Snow first suggested uncaging him, but he soon relented: he's seen Snow's almost magical ability to communicate with birds, so he trusts that Josiah–or Courage, as Snow calls him–understands the mission and will return to the pink house when Regina has been caught.

Mostly, though, Gold listens for any disturbance in the flow of magic. He can tell any time someone taps into it: Blue, conjuring lanterns when night falls; Bernadette, bouncing a fireball between her hands just to limber up . . . and Emma, totally unaware of what she's doing, causing little changes in her surroundings: making a red light turn green, filling a pothole as she drives over it, filling her gas tank when the needle drops to "e." All with magic.

Belle points out something that Gold suspected early on: if Regina can't get in to Storybrooke, neither can Bae. As long as the boundary curse holds, Gold and Belle can't get out; Regina and Bae can't get in. Only Emma and Henry can cross, but as long as Regina's out there, they're locked down.

Gold topples the trash can with his foot, then smacks it–just once, because he's trying, really trying–with his cane. "Something's gotta give."

* * *

><p>Gold senses an expenditure of magic. A cloud of smoke appears before the sheriff's desk and he summons a fireball, but he extinguishes it when he detects the scent of honey. "Good evening, Blue," he greets her as she materializes, Leroy at her side. The dwarf mutters sarcastically, "Next time I fly Air Fairy, provide me with a seat belt first, huh?" He then motions for Gold to move. "Here. I'm takin' the graveyard shift."<p>

"You know how to work the cameras?"

Leroy sniffs. "Does a bear crap–oops. Sorry, Blue, forgot you're a nun."

Blue smiles a little. "Let's hope Regina does too."

Stiffly, Gold relinquishes the chair. "How are things?"

"Nothing new." Blue had last phoned in an hour ago. "Henry's in bed. Emma went to your place to get some sleep. Snow's patrolling with David. The royal guard is spelling my fairies in the woodland patrol. The tension's worn off and everyone's tired."

"That's what Regina will be waiting for."

Blue nods. "But until she gets in, she can't access magic."

"And she can't get in unless it's on someone's coat tails. We've got to keep it that way."

"This curse is a blessing in disguise," Blue suggests. "Are you ready to stand down for a couple of hours? I'll keep watch." She sets a hand on his forearm. "Belle's waiting up for you."

He ignores the itching sensation on his skin where she's touching him. "I've got a visit to pay first."

"At this time of night?" Blue follows him outside. "Good night, Leroy."

"That's when I'm at my best, dearie." Gold winks.

"Perhaps someday you'll explain to me why you brought magic here." There's no criticism in her voice; she's not trying to pick a fight.

"You figured out it was me, did you?"

"No one else could have. It was a groundbreaking act of magic."

He thinks about it a moment. Detente exists between them; cooperation exists. But the degree of trust that it would take for him to let her into his plans? "Good night, Reul Ghorm."

* * *

><p>"Hello, dearie."<p>

Gasping, Sidney bolts upright in his bed. "Who–what do you–"

Gold snaps his fingers and the bedroom light comes on. "Ah, you have the Clapper. I've wondered how well those work."

Sidney is fumbling under his pillow, but Gold clicks his tongue. "Are you looking for this?" He produces a handgun. "Really, Mr. Glass, your pillow is not a safe place for such toys."

"What do you want?"

"Are you chilly, Mr. Glass? You're shaking. Such a warm evening it is, too." He sits on the edge of the bed. "Have you heard from our mutual friend?"

"You mean Regina?" Sidney licks his lips.

"Naturally."

"No."

"You're lying." Gold makes the gun disappear and a phone appear. "Your call history says otherwise. She called at 6 a.m. this morning and again at 6:10. What did she want?"

"I don't know. I didn't pick up."

Gold cocks his head. "Why not, dearie?"

"I. . .didn't want to talk to her."

"Well, obviously, but why?" When Glass stares at the sheets, refusing to answer, Gold presses, "Did it have anything to do with the fact that she left you behind?"

"Without even a goodbye," he snaps. "I would have gone with her. Anywhere."

"But she ran off. Didn't call, didn't write. The first time you heard from her was yesterday." Gold looks sympathetic. "Unrequited love's a bitch, isn't it, Mr. Glass? But you've made your point by making her wait. When she calls again–and she will, because she needs you to do something for her. But you're not going to do it, are you, Mr. Glass?" Gold makes the phone disappear and in its place, an oil lamp appears in his hand.

"Oh, no–" Glass squirms. "No, I won't help her. I won't even answer the phone."

"That's right. I'm sure you've heard what happened to Mr. Dove. My theory–and at this point, it is just a theory, until I can round up some test subjects. You wouldn't care to volunteer, would you, Mr. Glass? My theory is that, when one crosses the barrier, one reverts to one's original form, that is, the form one had before magic ever touched one's life. Hence, Mr. Dove became a dove. Now you, genie–"

Sidney's shuddering. "I was created from magic."

Gold purses his lips in mock pity. "Ah. So before magic touched you, you were. . . nothing. Nonexistent. So if you crossed the barrier, you'd simply–that is, if my theory is correct–wink out of existence. Interesting."

Sidney stares at his phone in shock.

"Mr. Glass, I'd say your petulance did you a favor! Imagine if you'd returned Regina's call!" Gold clicks his tongue. "But I know how insistent Her Majesty can be, and how overpowering love can be, so I'm going to help you. No, no, you needn't thank me. Consider it a public service."

Sidney finds his voice. "What are you going to do?"

From the golden lamp a curl of smoke leaks out. "I'm sending you home, Mr. Glass."

"No!" But the smoke surrounds the former genie, transforming him, sucking him in. "No!"

"Sleep well, genie." Gold sends the lamp back to his shop. Then he pulls out his phone and types a text to himself. "Gotta remember he's in there, when this is over."

* * *

><p>All these years of modern living have made him soft, he chastises himself as he tramps through a cornfield on the southern edge of town. He's only walked five miles and has three times that to go, but his ankle hurts and his bunion is rubbing against his conjured sneakers and he can't keep his thoughts from wandering to his soft, warm bed and his soft, warm girlfriend snuggled up in that bed.<p>

In the old days, he would have thought fifteen miles a mere stroll. He forces himself to suck it up: he wouldn't be in this spot if he hadn't brought magic to town. So he continues his trek, circumnavigating Storybrooke so that he can test the curse's limits. He needs to find the weak spots so that he can fortify them before Regina discovers them.

As he walks, he sends out pulses of magic, and when the pulses bounce back, he's reassured the boundary is holding: he's watching for a pulse that doesn't return, and then he'll know he's found a breach. He finds a gap somewhere in MacDonald's potato field, and he mends it.

He keeps walking. His feet grow heavy and slow; he's used to walking around town, but on sidewalks and park pathways, not fields. And he's feeling a little sorry for himself that he's not warm in bed, in Belle's arms. A hole catches his foot–the right one, if course–and twists his ankle and he falls, avoiding face-to-dirt contact by landing on his hands. With a groaned curse, he plops onto the ground to rest, sweating despite a chilly breeze. He gets his breath under control.

And then he feels it: a second breeze, going in the opposite direction of the first: an unnatural breeze. There is a hole in the magic, large enough for someone to pass through.

He phones Emma, but even as he dials, he feels the magic being dipped into, wallowed around in, toyed with. "She's in," he says as soon as Emma picks up. He doesn't have to explain.

"You think she'll go home first, charge up? You did say magic's different here; maybe she won't be able to start using it right away."

"Emma, she's going to your apartment. After that, she'll turn the town inside out." He hears an insistent beep on the other end; Emma puts him on hold, then she's back in a moment.

"She's at the loft."

In the distance he hears an explosion.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

He beats the fire truck and the squad car to the quadplex, but the ambulance has already arrived and paramedics are treating the Dolenzes and the Nesmiths. The building is on fire; beyond the flames, Gold can barely discern the skeleton of the building, his building. It won't survive the night. Three families and one single, the dwarf Dopey, have been displaced. Well, he has another property that's currently unoccupied, though well furnished; he will place them there temporarily, after he's put wards up: 108 Mifflin, the former mayor's mansion. Dopey is out in the woods somewhere with the other dwarfs, on patrol; Gold will have to call him with the bad news.

As Gold approaches, he hears sobbing and groaning, then a wail overrides the scream of the approaching squad car. He remains a respectful distance from the injured families, but he identifies the one who wailed: Mrs. Nesmith, crumpled on the ground, struggling to free herself from her husband's arms. She's attempting to block the passage of a stretcher, on which a sheet-covered form lies, nearly buried under life-saving machinery. Gold loses his footing as he steps out of David's and Snow's way. He catches himself against the squad car's hood. He doesn't need to hear the exchange between the Charmings and the paramedics to know who's under that oxygen mask.

Gold covers his mouth.

The fire truck arrives, and a few minutes later, Emma in her yellow Bug. Under her red jacket she's wearing a pair of Belle's pajamas, which look more like capris on her; when he takes the liberty of magically replacing them with her standard street clothes, she doesn't notice; she makes a beeline for the ambulance to take statements. He seizes her arm. "Emma! This will have to wait. We need to get to Granny's now."

"But–" she then realizes what he's saying and shouts for her parents. She urges them to return to the squad car, but Gold shakes his head. "No time!" He conjures a purple cloud and when it clears, the four of them are on Granny's lawn. Guns drawn, Snow and David circle around the alley way, while Emma proceeds into the front entrance. Gold takes the magic route up to the third floor, Granny and Ruby's private rooms, where Henry stays when the Lucases babysit him. He find Granny's bedroom door ajar, an unconscious Granny slumped to the carpet with Ruby aiding her. "Regina–" Ruby begins.

"Where did she go?" Emma appears at the top of he stairs.

"Down the back stairs. She tried to, you know, magic herself gone, but she couldn't.

David is in the hallway now. "How long ago?"

"Five minutes maybe."

"Where?" David turns to Emma as Snow tops the stairs and kneels beside Granny.

"Anywhere. . . .Marco's? Henry likes to hang out there." Emma guesses.

David gets another idea. "Ruby, we need you. Come with us. Regina's scent–"

"You want me to leave Granny?" Ruby's taken aback.

"I'll take care of her," Snow offers. "Please. Regina has to be stopped.

"Call Blue," Gold conjures a phone, already dialing itself, and tosses it to Snow. "She's a Healer." He bends, bringing magic to his fingers, and he presses his palm to Granny's forehead. The innkeeper opens her eyes and gasps in a lungful of clean air. "She'll be all right, I promise. Let's go."

Ruby allows Snow to ease Granny's head onto her lap. With a scowl Ruby nods and sniffs the wind. She gallops down the back stairs, David and Emma in tow; Gold shoots a blast of painkilling magic into his ankle so her can keep up. Ruby leads them north on Keane Drive, past the courthouse and the library, then turns onto Rush Avenue, past the park and the school. "I smell rotten eggs," Ruby pants.

"Her magic isn't working right," Gold explains. "It normally would smell like baked apples sprinkled with red pepper."

When they turn east onto Macbeth, Gold has a fair idea where Regina's headed, so he transports them there. They arrive at the Wilsons' bungalow–this is where Paige lives, when she's not Grace and living with Jefferson. As they arrive in a puff of magic, they find the house dark and quiet. "The Wilsons are at home, sleeping." Ruby reports with a sniff.

David reaches for his gun. "Not for long." A black Mercedes pulls up to the curb.

Regina's only just slid out from under the steering wheel when she's surrounded. Emma spins her around, pushes her down onto the hood of the Mercedes and slaps handcuffs on her as David holds a gun on her. "Do you think these toys will hold me?" Regina curls her lip and pulls against the metal, sending a bolt of magic into the lock, but Gold counters it and the lock holds.

"I've had several more months of practice, Regina." Gold reaches for his phone.

"Maybe so, but I have a son to reclaim," the mayor spits back. "What do you propose to do with me, Sheriff? I can walk right through any kind of prison you can hammer together."

"Not today, you can't." Emma yanks her upright as Gold makes his phone call.

"Do you know what you did back there?" David rages. "Four families homeless. Burns, lacerations, broken bones. And a four-year-old boy in critical condition."

Regina's facade breaks. "Four–?"

"Micky Nesmith." Emma snaps. "He's supposed to start kinder next week."

Gold finishes his phone conversation. "The jail is ready. Bernadette and Cecilia are waiting."

"Nuns?" Regina sneers. "If you think you're going to administer my last rites, you've got another think coming."

Emma smiles grimly. "We're using them in their other capacity. Gold, would you take us?"

Truth be told, his body and his magic have reached their limits for one night, but he's not about to give Regina an opportunity to summon her powers while they wait for Snow to arrive with the squad car. "Perhaps, Mr. Nolan, Ms. Lucas, you would drive back in Regina's car?"

Emma catches on. "Right. Good idea. We need to impound it as evidence."

He stands behind Regina so she can't see the strain on his face as closes his eyes, visualizing the strands of life flowing in and from his two passengers: Emma's life force, green as spring grass, and Regina's, red as honeycrisp apples. With a bluffed confidence, he demands of his magic that it wrap around these two lives, cocoon them completely so there will be no falls, and slowly his magic pulls and lifts. The women are transported to the jail. Gold follows moments later to watch Emma usher Regina into Cell B, "the one with the view," she says. "If you're ten feet tall."

As soon as the queen is locked in, the fairies sprinkle a layer of their dust thick enough to choke an imp. Gold stands well back, but his skin itches and prickles like he's run through a bramble bush, his head begins to throb and his vision blurs. He waits just along enough to observe the same effects in Regina. "Sheriff, I'm going home. I suggest we keep our houseguest with us another night or two. You too are welcome, until you've found suitable lodgings." He fails to extend the offer to the Charmings, for which Belle will chastise him later, but he wants to keep as much of his house–and Belle–to himself as he can. Henry's family, so he's entitled.

Emma cocks an eyebrow. "Will I owe you a favor?"

"You can cook breakfast tomorrow."

* * *

><p>Belle and Henry greet him at the front door, both with big, relieved smiles. In the background he can hear the television on: Roy and the Sons of the Pioneers are singing "New Moon over Nevada." They've found his Roy Rogers box set, then. And here he'd thought he had it safely hidden in his underwear drawer.<p>

He's glad he was caught, though. The music instantly relaxes him, as does Belle's insistence that he sit down in his recliner and take his shoes off. She seems a little surprised by the grass-stained sneakers on his feet. "Where are your Ferragamos?"

"Oh." He lays his head back against the pillow she's provided. "Left them in the car. I took a little walk last night."

"Yeah, I hear you were quite busy last night. Any injuries I should know about?" She cocks her head. "Or that you don't want me to know about?"

"Just tired." Gold tries to smile. "If you don't mind. . . ." He can't remember how he intended to finish the sentence, so he gives up.

"We'll turn the TV off," Henry offers, "so you can sleep."

"No, leave it on," he murmurs.

"Okay." Henry and Belle start to tiptoe from the living room, but Henry pauses. "Is my mom-?"

"She's fine. She'll be staying with us for a while."

"Yeah, I heard about the apartment." Henry frowns. "I started a list."

"A list?" Gold can't keep his eyes open.

"Of my stuff. For the insurance, you know. Belle's helping me look up replacement costs online."

Gold smiles: westerns and now insurance claims. He may have inherited Charming's do-gooder tendencies, but he thinks like a Gold. "Chip off the old block." He yawns. "One of these days, lad, I'll take you to my tailor. Every boy needs an Armani. . . ."

"Thanks, Grandpa."

* * *

><p>"How's the boy, the four-year-old?" Regina is asking as Gold walks in to the sheriff's office the next morning.<p>

"Same as yesterday," David reports. "Still in critical condition. His family's still homeless."

"I offered them your house," Gold smirks, "since you won't be needing it. But they thought it a bit drafty. But I have an empty rental on Durza Street that Belle's getting ready for them. Dopey's moved in with Sneezy, so that leaves the Dolenzes. They're staying at the inn until something comes available." He stops a full three yards from Cell B: the fairy dust is already making him break out in hives.

"It was an accident. My magic got out of control. I can't be held responsible." She sits on the cot. "I didn't know there was a child in the building."

"You said that yesterday," David grunts.

"And Henry? How is he?" There's a spark of hope in her voice.

Gold reveals nothing in his body language; she mustn't find out where Henry's staying.

"He's okay. He asks about you. Granny's recovered," David says, "in case you were wondering. She's back at work." He brings Regina a cup of coffee, then offers Gold one. "Ruby will be delivering your breakfast at nine."

"Don't bother," Regina says, resting her head in her palm.

"You look rather green at the gills, dear," Gold remarks. "Perhaps Mr. Nolan should call Dr. Whale."

"That quack?"

"You're right," Gold says. "Considering the source of your ailment, Blue would be a more suitable physician for you."

Regina shudders, then lurches forward, grabbing a bucket at the foot of her cot. Gold is momentarily puzzled about the reason for the bucket, until she makes it clear by losing the contents of her stomach in it.

"This is cruel and inhumane treatment," she protests weakly, wiping her mouth on a towel David brings her. "You can't leave me in here. I'll die."

"Yes, but you'll go insane first." Gold smiles pleasantly, as if she'd commented about the weather. "I speak from experience." He throws a sidelong glance at Charming.

"We're discussing options," David brooks no side remarks. "You'll get a trial, a fair one, and then we'll decide what to do."

"A trial." Regina's bloodshot eyes shoot to Gold. "I'll need a lawyer."

"No."

"You're just as responsible as I am. It was your curse."

"No."

"You conned me into it."

"You came to me, as I recall, asking to be taught. Asking for escape from your grief, a way out from under Cora's thumb. You were well on that path before I began training you—or need I remind you what you did to your husband and your admirer?"

David interrupts. "Enough. If you can't find an attorney to represent you, the state will provide one. You'll get your day in court, Regina."

She wraps her hands around the bars of her cell and directs her glare at Gold. "Oh, but you're the only one who understands me, dearie."

He flies at her, bent on squeezing her neck the way she's squeezing the bars, but he settles for sneering at her. "After what you did to Belle and Josiah, there's no way in seven hells I'd help you."

"Gold." David urges him to step back.

She blinks innocently. "Just a little joke, master. I suppose I forgot you have no sense of humor."

He allows David to push him away from the cell. The fairy dust is causing his stomach to churn—or maybe it's Regina.

"Oh, and my condolences," she calls out after him as he walks away. "Pity about the whole baby thing. But, I mean, how upset can you get over an imaginary baby?"

He slams the door behind him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears the theme song from _High Noon_.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Belle's curled up on the couch, a book about magic in her hands and a notepad in her lap. The couch is cluttered with books, there's no room for another sitter, so Gold takes off his jacket and tie, folds them carefully over the arm of his Barcalounger, and seats himself at her feet. She idly plays with his hair as she reads.

At last she sets the book aside to pay attention to her beloved. "How is she?"

"Only you would ask about her health," Gold sighs. "Someday, sweetheart, you're going to have to teach me where you found the bottomless well of forgiveness that you keep dipping into."

"You have it too," she assures him. "You just ignore it."

"I let it grow over with weeds. She's. . . still feisty. Still making threats. But she's ill from the dust. We need to make a decision soon. She has maybe three or four more days, I think, before her sanity. . . ."

"How long were you in Charming's mine?"

"I don't know. No windows, so I had no sense of time passing. But I had coping mechanisms." He doesn't want to remember: some of his coping mechanisms may have fueled the madness. "And you, in Regina's tower? How did you cope?"

They've talked about this before; they will again. But one day, they won't need to and then they'll let the rotten parts of the past go. Then they'll carry with them only those memories that lighten their present-day burden.

"I sang songs, sometimes lullabies my mother sang to me, sometimes little-girl songs from my halcyon days, sometimes songs from the bad old days too, about war and ogres. When I wanted to feel close to you, I sang the ones that I used to sing when I cleaned the Dark Castle."

"I remember," he says fondly. "The first time I caught you singing to yourself, you were kneading bread. It was a song about a tavern wench, not really a domestic song at all, much too bawdy for bread-making. I was shocked that my innocent maid knew such a song."

"You never sang then, but you do now."

"You give me reason."

She drops down to the floor and lays her head in his lap. "That bottomless well of forgiveness? This is how we draw from it. With songs, with happy memories."

"Is it really bottomless?" What he means is _Will_ _you_ _always_ _forgive_ _me_?

"It has to be," Belle answers. "Because god knows, human failing is."

"Love is," Gold adds thoughtfully. "Love is never-ending. Even for the likes of me. Charming's prison made me ill, but the moment when I thought I'd lost both you and Bae, that's when I went mad. But even then, sure that I'd never see either of you again, I couldn't stop loving you."

"There's your well of forgiveness, Rumple: your family."

He starts to consider this–and just as quickly, shuts the thought off. It would only get in the way. He bends to kiss her cheek. "I need to get up, sweetheart. I have a great many appointments, all to clean up the mess Regina made."

* * *

><p>Gold spends the rest of his day with fire investigators, city code compliance officers, his insurance agent and, finally, the crew chief of a demolition company, all in relation to the burned-down fourplex. When he drags home, he concludes that next time he needs to raze a building, he'll conjure it gone: there's too damn much paperwork and talking involved in doing it the human way.<p>

There was one bright spot in the day: the fire department found Henry's storybook unharmed in the remains of a dresser. Tucking it under his arm, Gold walks home just before sunset. On the porch to the pink house he finds another surprise: Dove has returned and is perched on the railing.

"Welcome back," Gold greets the bird. He wonders if Josiah came back of his own volition or by a communication from Snow White. He's inclined to think the former when, as soon as the front door is open, the bird flies inside and directly to the kitchen. Gold makes a decision then not to re-cage the bird. After filling some ramekins with water and seed, Gold fetches a box and fills it with shredded newspaper, then sets it in the laundry room. Dove watches him as he completes these tasks but doesn't budge from the back of Belle's chair.

Gold pours himself an iced tea and sits down heavily at the table. He's too tired to think and he would rather not feel, because if he does, it will be either rage or depression. . . or both. Why, he wonders, doesn't he feel satisfied? Regina's been prevented from taking Henry and she'll pay for what she did. Perhaps he relates to–though does not, cannot sympathize with–her, villain to villain, childless parent to childless parent. Or perhaps he feels guilty for having nudged a sixteen-year-old down a bramble-choked path.

This is bad, very bad. He'll derail his plans if he starts thinking about the consequences of his actions upon other people.

He distracts himself by watching the bird, which is watching him. "Josiah, are you in there?" The bird fails to respond. "I'm sorry."

* * *

><p>How messy the house is, with new and donated clothes strewn about for the sheriff and her son, but Gold doesn't mind at all. How crowded the kitchen is, with two more round the table, but Belle doesn't mind at all.<p>

The kitchen table is tight on space with four seated around it, passing platters and bowls back and forth. It's hardly traditional, but Gold's placed a fifth chair at the foot of the table; Belle understands why and doesn't mention the asymmetry. The guests don't notice: Emma's famished after a long day of patrolling the town for signs of additional damage Regina might have caused, while Henry's pumping all the adults for information about the trial and their best guesses as to Regina's punishment. He seems to assume Regina will be sentenced to a few months in jail, during which he'll be allowed to drop in on her with the same casualness as he has visited Emma there. He knows his mom is locked up, but he doesn't know about the fairy dust.

A glance passes between Emma and Gold. It's Emma's decision, but Gold's expression indicates he thinks Henry should be given more preparation for what may come. Damaged though it is, the boy does need to continue a relationship with the woman who raised him for as long as it's possible, Gold thinks–not for Regina's welfare, not even for Henry's benefit, but so that when Regina's gone Henry will have no cause to resent Emma. Gold understands Emma's wish to spare her son pain, but he compares Henry's situation to his own. He thinks back upon the few happy days, scattered over eight years, that he had with Malcolm, and he believes if, had he been given a choice to not know his father at all and be spared the pain of abandonment, he would have still willingly paid with all that pain just to have the little of Malcolm's love he was given. Or maybe not. He may not be that brave.

A small shake of the head indicates Emma's decision.

Gold gives her a small nod in answer: he will refrain from answering Henry's questions about Regina's incarceration, even if he thinks Henry's old enough to be told. His eyes drift over Emma's head to the photo on the wall. Gold understands how hard it is to parent. He made a few bad decisions in his day.

* * *

><p>He's brushing his teeth, getting ready for bed. Emma and Henry turned in two hours ago: they're early risers and will hit the bricks before Gold and Belle even wake up. Then again, Gold may just surprise them and join them for breakfast. He has reason: Henry's got a ball game this afternoon and Gold ought to wish him good luck.<p>

Last night, after Gold returned the storybook to the boy, Henry invited him to attend the game. Gold's never been invited to a game before. Hell, he's never been invited to much of anything before. He'll be there, and he won't embarrass his grandson by wearing Armani and Ferragamos: he'll go in the jeans and t-shirt Belle talked him into buying. And he won't yell too much or threaten to cane the umpire and he'll pack a cooler and share his bounty with the other parents and grandparents.

Belle beamed when Henry extended the invitation, but she had the good sense not to make a fuss. She stayed out of the conversation, conducting her own conversation with Emma, but she seemed unnaturally pleased that Clark's was offering a three-for-one on canned peas.

So Gold is brushing his teeth and thinking about the designated hitter rule when his eyes fall on Belle's hairbrush and suddenly the brainstorm hits him. Then he knows, as sure as he knew when he first came up with the idea of bottling True Love. This new idea has never been done before, never been tested, but his gut tells him it will work. It will break the boundary curse, restore Josiah and resolve the Regina dilemma. It will make Henry safe. It will enable Gold to go to Soho and find Bae. It will make Belle proud.

That is, if he pursues it. He sets his toothbrush back in its cup. This new idea will solve all their problems—but it means giving up everything that makes Gold special, everything that keeps him and his family safe. It's a tremendous price to pay.

* * *

><p>Emma's late for the ball game. Gold's saved a seat for her—not that there's much competition for space on the risers—and as she approaches, he politely stands. She's wearing sunglasses, as is he, but as she sits down, sweat from her forehead runs into her eyes and she removes the sunglasses to rub the sweat away. That's when he finds out why she's late: she's sporting a black eye.<p>

"Emma—"

"Oh, don't go there, Gold," she sighs. "Just toss me a beer, huh?"

"I'm going there," he says firmly. She groans but he pushes, "No matter how drunk he gets, Leroy would never hit a woman, so I'm guessing it was Regina who hit you."

Emma reaches past him, digs around in the cooler and fetches a beer for herself. "Forget it. I'm an officer of the law. This kind of crap happens."

"What else did she do?"

Emma pulls the tab and takes a long draught before muttering, "She. . .broke Whale's nose. He was examining her and she. . . she accused him of trying to rape her. All he was doing was listening to her heart with his stethoscope. She had him on the floor and was beating the hell out of him. Incredible strength, considering."

"The dust causes occasional spikes in adrenaline."

"When I tried to peel her off of him, she screamed and went after me. Thought I was an ogre."

He smiles wryly. "You can be rather intimidating, Ms. Swan." He raises his hand; his fingertip is glowing. "May I?" She nods and he touches the bruise, healing it instantly.

"Thanks." She looks out at the field; Henry's covering third base. "What'd I miss?"

"He's been up to bat twice. Struck out both times."

She shrugs. "Hitting's not his long suit." She flashes a smile. "Actually, baseball's not his long suit, but he has fun anyway."

"Emma, I know you don't want to talk about this, but it's only going to get worse with Regina. Who knows what form her madness will take? For me, it was kind of a mania: giggling, wall-climbing, talking to shadows. For Regina, it sounds like she'll act out in violence."

"We've got her on a suicide watch, by Archie's orders." Emma sips her beer. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone that. Guess I was hoping you might have an idea. Something in your hokus-pokus bag."

"Nothing that Whale couldn't prescribe for her. Emma, until she starves herself into weakness, she's very dangerous."

"I know." She touches her eye.

"If she's imagining ogres and rapists, she's already declining into insanity. If she were to get out—if she overpowered Leroy some night when he's taking her to the ladies' room, she could do a hell of a lot of damage and not even know who she's attacking."

"Henry."

"Yeah. She's already hurt one child. Micky's still in the hospital."

"We're going to have to speed up this trial. Still don't have anyone to defend her."

"A trial is pointless," he grunts. "A waste of time. We need to be talking about what to do afterward."

"It's the now that's my job. How do I protect the town from her? How do I protect Henry?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Whatever you do, don't let her out of the cell."

A crack of a bat draws her attention back to the game. Gold's hand on his beer can tightens. That boy out there on third base is his responsibility too.

For Henry, Regina must be stopped. For Belle and Josiah and Adelena, Regina must be punished. There's only one way to stop a sorceress.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

When Belle is sound asleep, Gold slides out of bed. He's got some thinking to do and here's not the place to do it. Actually, it's not really thinking he wants: it's feeling, and to conjure the emotions he wants to feel in order to take the action he wants to take, he needs another locale. As quietly as he can, he closes the bedroom door behind him and sneaks down the hall past the adjacent guest rooms in which Henry and Emma are sleeping; he pauses just a minute there, pretending to himself that he's adjusting his grip on his cane, but truthfully, he's just enjoying the thought that behind those doors his loved ones, except for Bae, sleep in peace. Then he reminds himself it's his job to keep it that way, so he continues down the hall and opens the door to the yellow room. Safe inside, safe from Belle's questions and judgment, he sits in the rocking chair and stares at the empty crib. It doesn't take long for the feelings to come. Soon enough, he's clenching his cane with the same fury he'd exhibit if he were clenching the neck of the one who took Adelena from him and Belle.

The same one who gave Adelena to them. A lie, but also a hope.

His fury backslides into a simmering anger. He rouses himself: he needs to stay enraged to do what must be done. And do it, he must: no one in this town–least of all his grandson, his would-have-been daughter-in-law, his someday-wife and his friend–is safe as long as she's alive.

To protect his family, then. He's been around far too long to trust the justice system with one as dangerous as Regina, especially when at the head of that system is Snow White. He's seen what Snow considers justice: a comfortable, clean room with a view, a soft bed, clean clothes and nutritious meals every day–that's how Snow metes out justice to Regina. Gold's blood boils. Snow should leave the punishment phase to her cold-blooded husband, with his hole-in-the-ground prisons and his maggot-infested meals.

So this isn't just about revenge, then; it's also about envy. Why the Charmings pampered one prisoner (because she was female? Because she was royal? Or because she was kin, even if it wasn't by blood?) and tortured the other. So what? It doesn't matter what the Dark One's motives are, as long as he does what must be done. _That_ _thou_ _doest_, _do_ _quickly_. He changes out of his pajamas into his leather: the close-fitting material centers him in his body, somehow, unlike the cloth suits, which center him in his mind.

Even before he's materialized, he's thrown out a sleeping spell–not that the dwarf babysitting the prisoner needed one; Happy was dozing off anyway. Gold materializes in her cage: warm blankets, a pillow, a trip to the bathroom whenever she asks, three square meals, her own clothes to wear and a shower every day–once again, treated like royalty. Pointedly Gold ignores the queen's mottled skin, the clumps of hair and the weight she's lost, and that ever-present bucket at the foot of her bed. _Do_ _quickly_.

He stares down at her a moment: she's sleeping, breathing through her mouth. She's in a high-necked, white cotton nightgown (not her own, he's sure; it's the kind he suspects Snow would own). Then, screwing his courage to the sticking place, he bends over her, clasps a hand over her mouth and whispers in her ear, "Not a sound, Your Majesty."

Her eyes fly open. She struggles but he holds her firmly, under his own strength, rather than magic; he wants to enjoy all the physical sensations. He yanks her upright, onto her feet. She screams beneath his hand, but it doesn't matter: Happy dozes. Gold twists her arm behind her back, all the better to control her as he spins her to face him. He wants to see the fear take possession of her.

She bites his hand and when he jerks it away, she doesn't scream again–she sees the fruitlessness of that–nor threaten–she has nothing to threaten with. Nor does she plead or bargain, though she realizes she's about to die at his hand; if she had tried to soften him with tears or deals, he would have struck immediately. Instead, she says, "I heard them talking. I know Henry's your grandson."

He twists her arm tighter and she grunts, but she persists. "All the puzzle pieces fell together when I heard that. Why you created the curse. Why you created the Evil Queen. It's for this son that Emma helped you find: her lover, Henry's father. Everything"–is that admiration in her tone?–"centuries of work, so you could find him again, and now, the curse won't let you. The curse you created to find him won't let you go to him or him to come to you. Do you find that ironic, Rumple, or just tragic? Do you think the gods are out to screw you, or just screw with you?"

"Shut up," he demands.

"Why? Isn't the condemned entitled to a last statement?" Her eyes darken with bloodlust. She can't help it; the call of the kill entices her, even when it's her own execution. He recognized that in her mother; he recognized it in himself. In a way, it binds him to her and Cora, almost makes a family of them, a sick family joined by bloodlust but not blood.

It's been a long time since his soul cried out for a killing.

"So you've come to do me a favor," she smiles cockily. "You're granting me some mercy."

"What?"

"You're killing me, aren't you? Sparing me the insanity that this fairy dust is driving me to. I should thank you for a quick death." He has to respect her, he supposes, for staring him down even now, when she's helpless. "One thought, though: what will your loved ones think of you when they find out what you've done? I can tell you how Henry will react: first disbelief, because he's always kind of liked you, even when he was afraid of you, then shock, when he has no choice but to believe. Then horror: who else will you kill? Emma, if she pisses you off? Charming, the 'good grandpa'? Or maybe Henry will say the wrong thing one day and you'll kill him? You'll never have his respect and you'll never have a relationship with him, because he'll be terrified of you–not that Emma and her idiot parents would allow it anyway.

"I can predict how Henry will react, but I admit, I don't know Belle well, so you'll have to tell me. What will be the expression on her face when she sees what you've done? Will she thank you for getting even on her behalf or will she fear you, like Henry will? When you go to kiss her, will she push you away in disgust, or will she run from you in terror that you'll try to kill her too?

"This son of yours. Does he mind having a murderer for a father? Tell me about him, Rumple. Does he crave the taste of blood like you and I do? Will–"

"Shut up!" His hand closes, at long last, around her throat and he squeezes. But it doesn't feel good–he doesn't know if the fairy dust is getting to him or something more insidious. . .a sense of decency, perhaps. He can kill Regina and have justice, or he can have his burgeoning family, Belle and Henry and Josiah and (sort of) Emma and, one day, Bae. Not both. He could cover up the killing, make it look like Regina succumbed to the fairy dust, but even though he might manage to keep his family around him, he wouldn't _have_ them. He'd lose them to his own lies.

Lately he's seen something new when Henry, Emma and Blue look at him: not trust yet, but a thawing of fear, a rolling back of disgust. It's nice. He wants more. He wants dominoes with Jo, bagels with Emma, Sunday afternoon westerns with Henry, and whatever Baelfire might like to do, that's what Gold wants to do too. And Belle, every day and everywhere, Belle: the kitchen, the living room, the study. Belle in all her permutations, all her moods. Belle the brave, Belle the virtuous, Belle the judgmental, Belle the sinner. He wants every moment of her.

Standing minutes away from a killing, he can't work up the necessary rage. The memory of the heady scent of blood is too dim. He can't remember bloodlust.

It's not really power he's wanted, all these years: it's security, a safe place to be himself. A little bit of comfort, a little bit of friendship, a little bit of love.

He's let go of Regina's throat. He hasn't intended to; his hand opened of its own volition.

"What's the matter, master? Can't get it up any more?" Regina sneers.

He blinks at her. "Why the hell am I wasting my time on you? I have loved ones waiting for me." He transports himself from her cage. But old habits die hard, so over his shoulder he sneers right back at her. "Of course, you wouldn't know what that's like, would you, dearie?" Just to leave her with a little something—because the Dark One needs some satisfaction—he throws a quick blast of magic at her head and relishes her whimper as her hair falls out, every last strand of it, all over her nightgown.

* * *

><p>The front door bangs open and footsteps run across the foyer and into the kitchen. Gold has kept the basement door open just for this purpose, to hear when Henry gets home from school. "Excuse me," he says to Blue, "my grandson's home."<p>

The fairy, kneeling beside a bed of seeds she's nurturing, smiles up at him. "Of course."

At the top of the stairs Gold pauses to survey the scene: a jacket dropped over a chair, a backpack on the floor near the cookie cupboard, the refrigerator door hanging open and a denim-covered butt poking out from it. "Hey, Grandpa!" Henry calls to him from the glasses cupboard. "You want a glass of milk?"

Gold blinks. If Henry's over there, then whose butt is that poking out from the fridge? Then he notices that the dropped jacket is red leather. He proceeds into the kitchen. "Hi, Henry. No ball practice? Hello, Emma; you're both home early." He likes the taste of those words: _you're home_.

"Coach had an emergency," Henry says, setting three tumblers on the counter. "Hand me the milk, mom?" The boy takes the plastic jug from Emma—Gold smiles: he and Belle bought a gallon jug at the store yesterday; he's never in his entire life bought a gallon of anything. Henry splashes milk into each tumbler, somehow managing not to spill any, and he brings one to his grandfather. Gold's stomach and milk don't get along, but Gold accepts the tumbler anyway and when Henry's back is turned, he changes the milk into tea.

Now the refrigerator closes and Emma, her hands filled with jars and a package of bologna secured between her teeth, swings around. Gold dives in to assist her in carrying her treasures to the table. Meanwhile, Henry's bringing plates and butter knives and a package of cookies as his offerings. "Yeah," Emma adds, peering at Gold. "A hair emergency." Coach Lance (formerly Lancelot of Camelot) is the owner of Milady's Locks. "All of Regina's hair fell out last night. Whale said it's a nutrition thing, but Regina claims an imp appeared in her cell last night and made her hair fall out. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"I? Hair styling is one subject I know little about."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Just a reminder, you two: don't fill up," Gold warns dutifully. "Belle has a Beef Wellington planned for tonight." Then, deciding he's done his husbandly duty, he calls down to the basement, "Blue! We're having a snack. Care to join us?" It's only an hour later as he's completing another husbandly duty—cleaning up the kitchen—that he realizes his brain has twice today set him firmly and quite contentedly in the "husband" category.

But for now, as Emma slaps bologna slices on bread and Henry fetches a fourth tumbler of milk for Blue, Gold takes a moment, just a moment, to appreciate the scene. A nasty thought enters his head: that two-bedroom apartment on Lennox Lane that would be perfect for Emma and Henry—well, the landlord's just going to have to find it needs a slew of repairs before the little family can move in.

"Sandwich, Blue?" Emma offers, a dollop of mayo dangling precariously from her knife.

"Thank you, but a few of these cookies will tide me over nicely." The fairy grabs a plate and seats herself in the fifth chair. She's become comfortable in this house, even more so since Emma and Henry arrived, and she's taken meals with them several times. She always sits in the fifth chair—Bae's chair. Gold doesn't object: he imagines she's warming it up for Bae.

"Gold? Sandwich?" Emma waves her knife. "I know: mustard and ketchup, not mayo. Hey, did I ever tell you, that's how Neal takes his sandwiches? He hates mayo too." Emma cocks her head thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, his favorite mustard is French's."

"Like Belle French!" Henry pipes up. He squeezes a swirl of mustard onto a slice of bread. "I'm going try mine that way. What else does he like to eat, Mom?"

This launches a rather detailed conversation that can't possibly interest Blue, but Gold listens closely; he will be certain to add these items to his shopping list. . . when the time comes. He watches Emma as she loses herself in memories. She's become much more comfortable, of late, talking about Neal, as long as no one asks about the break-up. She's warming up to the idea, Gold feels certain, of allowing Neal a place in Henry's life, if not her own.

As Emma answers Henry's barrage of questions, Blue leans over to Gold. "We _will_ break this curse. 'But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience."'

* * *

><p>He gives Belle a black eye.<p>

It's an accident, of course, but until it fades naturally, he's reminded every time he looks at her what a jerk he is. He could heal it with magic, but she refuses; when she goes into town, she covers it with makeup. She doesn't blame him at all: it's the result of his thrashing about in bed, in the throes of a nightmare.

He'd been dreaming that he was running from an ogre, he tells her as he gingerly holds an ice pack to the injury. What he doesn't mention is that the ogre looked exactly like Neal Cassidy.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

One week after the explosion, there's an empty lot where the fourplex once was.

Two weeks after the explosion, Snow and David are settled comfortably in a freshly painted, newly carpeted one-bedroom apartment on Devine Road, but despite the many properties he owns, Gold hasn't been able to find an empty two-bedroom for Emma and Henry. It seems every time one comes available, someone else snatches it up before Emma can go look at it.

Emma folds her arms in annoyance when Gold gives her the latest bad news. "What the hell does Tom Clark need with a two-bedroom rental? He already owns a condo on Thomson Avenue."

Gold shrugs. "For when his in-laws come to visit?"

"He has no in-laws! He's a dwarf, for cryin' out loud!"

"Guess you're stuck with us a little while longer," Gold's smirking, but meekly.

* * *

><p>Regina's trial is under way. Sidney is representing her in court, since no one else will; DA Spencer wipes the floor with the amateur. Regina shouts at both men repeatedly on the first day, some of it nonsense, and she has to be magically muzzled, but by the second, she's too ill to speak. Blue is brought in, along with Whale, to examine her; it's determined that too much fairy dust has been sprinkled on the handcuffs that bind the prisoner. They make adjustments and by day three, Regina is smirking again and her appetite, for the meals she takes away from her jail cell, improves. Bernie and Ceecee go in and sweep up some of the fairy dust while Regina is out, and Emma reports that the former mayor is now able to get some sleep, but when Regina's caught lighting a fireball, a fresh layer of dust is laid.<p>

Regina has requested to have her case heard by a judge rather than a jury. There aren't enough unbiased people in town, she says, to form a jury, and she's right. Snow White is her judge; Regina smiles when she's informed of that.

By Emma's request, Gold shows up at the jail on the first morning of the trial and with a flick of his wrist, restores Regina's hair. He leaves immediately after, saying nothing to his former pupil.

Emma doesn't allow Henry to see the television reports. She takes him out of school when other children expose him to newspaper articles. As the demands on her time and her patience increase, she depends more on Henry's grandfathers and Belle to care for the boy.

Belle and Gold are called to testify. Hell, the list of witnesses for the prosecution is so long that the trial could go on for years, but Snow orders it cut down to fifteen. On the defense's side, there are a couple of former royal guards, until Sidney gets the bright idea to call Rumplestiltskin. Gold refuses and Sidney informs him he'll be dragged in if necessary. The night after that declaration, Emma arranges for Henry to have supper with the Charmings so she can talk to Gold and Belle alone. The sheriff is practically in tears. "I don't want to do this, but if you don't show up willingly in court on Friday, Sidney's going to make me arrest you. I'll have to take you in there in cuffs."

"It's a pointless trial," Belle remarks. "The outcome is obvious. This parade of witnesses, it's really just an excuse for people to vent."

"My parents think that'll do the town some good." Emma sighs. "Show up in court, will ya, Gold? I don't want to have to tell Henry I arrested his grandpa."

"Admit it," Gold teases, "I've grown on you."

"Yeah," Emma admits, then she glances at the photo on the wall. "I see a lot of him in you. Or vice versa."

* * *

><p>That night as they slip into bed, Belle is in one of her quiet moods. Back in the Dark Castle days, after he'd come to realize his growing emotional connection to her, he used to worry about these moods; they were so un-Belle, he thought. In her youthfulness some part of her always seemed to be in motion: if not her feet or her hands or her hips (he found his gaze falling shamefully often on those hips), then her mouth; a chatterbox, she was. But that was Belle A: Belle had a B side too, a silent and thought-filled mood that at first he'd mistaken for depression or brooding or fear. . . or scheming ways to escape. In time he discovered that after an hour or a day, Belle A would reemerge, sunny and bubbly as ever, chattering about whatever she'd been thinking about.<p>

And gods, did the girl like to think. He considered himself a thinker, capable of spending days at his wheel, literally wool-gathering, but his thoughts were nearly always centered on one of a half-dozen concerns, including, increasingly, those hips. And more interestingly, what they would feel like without all that cloth in the way. And more problematically, what he would feel like, if he touched her and liked it and she liked it. And most problematically, what he would do about it, if it turned out that the ever-tightening bonds (chains! He must think of them as chains that would imprison him, prevent him from fulfilling his quest for Bae) were permanent.

But Belle liked to think, about everything from shopping lists to how the universe was created. Tonight, Belle B had emerged right after supper and Belle A didn't replace her until bedtime. She's under the covers, turning off the light on her side of the bed (he loves it that they each have a chosen side of the bed. There's a rightness in that.) when she blurts, "You know, inadvertently, she did us a favor."

He assumes she means Regina. He turns off his light. Through the window above the bed, moonlight replaces electricity as the power that reveals her to him. He likes moonlight. "A favor?"

"It's kind of hard to execute someone who, for most of us, gave us a better life than we had in the Enchanted Forest. There, seventy percent of the population lived in hovels, freezing and starving in winter, dying of dysentery and influenza and measles and ogre attacks. Infant mortality, thirty percent. Schooling only for the nobility." She looks guilty. "I had private tutors until the Ogres War started. Did you go to school at all?"

"No. But I grew up hundreds of years before you, remember."

"It hadn't changed in my day. No schools for peasants. No books. No doctors. Yes, we were separated from our families and friends, and Regina knew that would happen, and she must be punished for it, but. . . maybe we need to keep in perspective that the curse had some positive effects."

He grunts. "She lied to me. Told me you had died in a horrific way. And then when she brought us here, she—if it had gone as she planned, you would have become an adulteress. We would have broken each other's hearts. And Josiah's."

"But it didn't. Instead, we became friends, and we're better for it. Once we break the boundary curse, Jo too; we're better because we have thirty years of friendship between us. That's a pretty solid foundation. And for us, as lovers, we have thirty years of learning about each other and caring about each other to get us through the times we argue. All those years of learning how to love you, they enable me to see your point of view. The strength of the bond between us after thirty years—don't you feel it? Doesn't it give you something too, Rumple?"

"Hope." The word is out of his mouth before he can censor it. "Yes. I know what I place at risk when we fight. And Adelena–when I think of Adelena I'm shown the man I could be, what we could be as a couple."

"What our love will produce," Belle adds.

He sits upright. "_Will_?"

Belle chuckles as she drags him back beneath the sheets. "No, I'm not pregnant. . . yet. I'm certain one day, when we're ready, I will be. Adelena's waiting for us, I know it. Rumple, see the curse for the accidental gift it was. Let the law take care of Regina; our business is to take care of each other."

She tucks her head under his chin; she's a perfect fit in his arms. She always has been–as, he realizes, he has been for her, an imperfect perfect fit. "All right." He relents. "Back to the lab, then, tomorrow, and back to the convent"–he smiles ruefully at the connotation of his word choice–"for you." After a long kiss, he releases her. "Belle?"

"Hmm?"

"What's your favorite stone?"

She shifts on his chest. "Huh? Oh, I guess marble."

"No, I mean, jewel."

"Oh, I thought you were thinking about redoing the kitchen counters."

"Your favorite jewel?" he prods.

"My mother had a sapphire ring, before the war started. I liked that very much. Why?"

He shrugs. "Just making a Christmas list."

"Rumple, it's July."

* * *

><p>There's an empty space beside him when he awakens. His mind still wandering in a half-finished dream, he startles when he reaches out but finds no one there to hold.<p>

In his dream, he was the Dark One again, and he had Robin Hood strung up by the wrists and was carving him open like a side of beef as Belle swept up the blood and cried. Her crying got on his nerves, so he conjured a tasseled pillow and tossed it at her, demanding that she shut up. He picked up his carving knife, grasped his prisoner by the hair and yanked up to see the eyes clearly, to relish the agony there. The eyes that looked back at him were large as bullions, and gold.

"Belle?" He slips into his robe and patters to the bathroom, but she's not there. His ankle's threatening to buckle, so he has to return to the bedroom for his cane, and in so doing, a buzzing sound coming from outside catches his attention. He peers out the window and what he sees, out on his lawn, cuts through the remnants of his nightmare: Henry, masterfully steering a power lawn mower, is cutting the grass.

Gods. Gold feels so proud he could bust.

At ease now, he showers and dresses quickly, because he can smell coffee, and he thumps downstairs to the kitchen, where Emma and Belle are preparing breakfast. "Morning, Rumple," Belle chirps. "Oatmeal okay this morning? I think we've been getting too much cholesterol in our diet."

Emma is popping slices of bread into the toaster. "Cinnamon raisin." She shows him the bread bag. "Picked it up at the bakery this morning."

"Henry's mowing the lawn." Gold can't stop grinning, even as he starts setting the table. "He doesn't have to do that."

"Yes, he does," Emma argues. "He's eleven. He needs to have chores."

Gold shakes his head, still grinning, as he lays down the bowls. "Henry's mowing the lawn."

Emma's perplexed. "So? No magic involved there, Gold."

"_My grandson _is mowing the lawn."

"Yeah?" Emma still doesn't get it, but Belle does; she grins too. "Your _grandson_," she reiterates.

Emma just shrugs and pops a raisin into her mouth.

* * *

><p>"Grandpa?"<p>

Caught, Gold reddens with embarrassment and exertion as he grabs his cane and pries himself to his feet. His ankle gives out and he slips on the cement floor; Henry dives in to catch him. He helps the old man to the Caddy and urges him to lean against it, to rest, since there is no place to sit in the garage. "Are you sick? Should I call 911?"

Sweat is dripping down the old man's forehead and his hair is limp with dampness. "No, I'm fine. I can see how you'd think that, though. I was just. . . exercising."

Henry frowns. "In the garage?"

"Sort of." Gold pats his face with his handkerchief as he relaxes against the hood of his car.

"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"I'm sure. I was just—practicing kneeling. To see if I could do it."

This perplexes Henry all the more. "For church? With Blue?"

"Not exactly." Gold has regained his breath now. "Just, you know, strength conditioning."

"Oh."

* * *

><p>Gold testifies in Regina's trial. It's Rumplestiltskin that's been summoned, so he drops the glamour and appears in all his sparkly, scaly glory, leather and hand flourishes and all. Except for the rotten teeth. Gold can't abide the teeth.<p>

Now that he's got him, Sidney doesn't know what to do with him: Glass tries to prove that Rumple was the mastermind behind the curse: "Yes," Rumple says cheerfully, "thank you; it _was_ quite masterful, wasn't it?" He tries to prove Rumple tricked Regina into casting it: "Oh really?" Rumple seems perplexed. "Tell me, dearie, where was I when she demanded instruction in how to cast the curse? And where did I remain when the curse was cast? If I were as tricky as you say, why did I rot in Prince Charming's prison for ten months?"

Sidney tries to prove Rumple bribed Regina: "Tell me," Rumple answers, "what the name Rumplestiltskin is best known for, in all the realms. I am a deal maker, trading in magic, and I had done for three hundred years before Regina was born. When she asked me for the curse, I sold it to her. A simple business transaction. She wanted a curse that would transport all her chosen ones to a new land; that's what I sold her. It worked exactly as she specified. The fact that we are all here demonstrates the quality of the product. So tell me, Mr. Glass, where is the bribe?"

Sidney tries to prove Rumple corrupted an innocent young maiden. Rumplestiltskin giggles at this: "Look at me. Do I look like someone an innocent young maiden would trust? Regina summoned me, not the other way around, and she became a student of mine, just one of many, more talented than some, less than others. She summoned _me_, not the Blue Fairy. It was Dark magic she wanted. It was Dark magic she'd seen practiced all her life, by her own mother; she knew full well what it could do; she knew what it would do to _her_. She'd seen what the Darkness made of her mother. So tell me, dearie, where is the corruption?"

It goes on and on for a full morning, but Sidney can find no way in. He gives up. In the afternoon, Spencer has one question for Rumplestiltskin: "Did Regina Mills use the Dark magic you taught her to kill, torture, manipulate and bully an entire town?"

Rumplestiltskin has a two-word answer: "She did."

When he stands down, as he walks through the courtroom, he resumes his glamour, gold-tipped cane and all. He's still a showman.

* * *

><p>"I thought maybe you could tell me what's going on with my mom. The trial, I mean."<p>

It had started out to be such an easy day, a Sunday morning; with Emma at work and Belle visiting her father, it was a Guys' Day: they'd wash the cars, then sit out on the back lawn and listen to a ball game on the radio, then wander over to Amy's for ice cream before the _Sunday_ _Wild_ _West_ _Feature_ started.

Gold drops his sponge into the soapy bucket and runs his sweatshirt sleeve across his forehead. "I think you ought to ask Emma about that."

But Henry won't let it go. He turns off the hose and abandons the Bug to come over to the Caddy and face his grandfather—a showdown. "I know you testified yesterday. I heard you and Belle talking."

"Yeah."

"I think I should know."

"I can't. . . . "

"Why?" Henry squares his feet. "I'm not a kid any more. I need to know what's going to happen to my mom." He grabs Gold's sleeve. "What did they ask you yesterday? What did you say?" Gold shakes his head. "Look, I know she did terrible things. I know she's guilty and needs to be punished. I know she wanted to kidnap me!"

"Henry, I promised Emma. She needs to be the one to tell you."

"Grandpa, please!"

Gold shuts his eyes. When he opens them, Henry's still glaring up at him. Gold sighs. "I won't break my promise."

Henry's still waiting.

Gold waves at the buckets and the hose. "Clean up here." He walks toward the house.

Henry's angry now. "What are you doing, Grandpa?"

"I'm going to call Emma. I think it's time you visited the jail."

* * *

><p>"But not in the cell. I don't want him to see her behind bars. That would be too upsetting. I'll have her waiting in the interrogation room, two o'clock." Emma's voice is both angry and worried. "Gold, you better be right about this."<p>

"He needs to know the truth, Emma."

* * *

><p>Henry is silent on the drive back home from the jail.<p>

Henry's had several sessions with Archie, ever since the curse broke; there will be plenty more in his future. But for now, Henry doesn't want to talk to anyone. Gold leaves him to his thoughts: a man needs to respect another man's private thinking time.

When they get inside the house, Gold asks, "Are you hungry?"

Henry shakes his head. "Guess I'd better start on my homework."

"Okay."

But they both know his homework was finished Friday night. He pauses on the stairs but doesn't look back at his grandfather. "What's going to happen to her?"

"I don't know."

Henry continues up the stairs.

* * *

><p>Belle has the table set for four people, but the food is growing cold.<p>

Gold pours four glasses of tea. "Should I go up and get them?"

"No." Belle stares at the ceiling as if she could see through it to Henry's bedroom. "They need to talk it out."

"I could take their plates up to them."

"No. When they're ready, they'll come down. We can always reheat everything."

He withdraws a chair for her and she sits, spreading a napkin across her lap. They pass the platters back and forth in silence, filling their plates, but they pick at the food.

"I wish he'd asked me about the birds and the bees instead," Gold says.

"He trusts you," Belle answers. "You didn't let him down. He knows now he can come to you." She stabs at a green bean. "And her. Emma's earned her mom stripes today."

"How do we help him, if they decide to execute Regina?"

Belle shakes her head.

Gold pushes his plate away. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. No appetite. I'm going down to the basement."


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Belle has come across some interesting speculation in a scroll written by Blue's immediate predecessor. Gold growls when she first shows him the translation, for the topic of the discourse is how one might divest the Dark One of his (or in two cases, her, for there have been two female Dark Ones) power.

"Aw, consider the source, sweetheart," he complains. "Why give any credence to anything this fairy wrote? Besides, most of this is hogwash. It's the fairy version of 'step on a crack, break your mama's back.'"

But he does consider it, when he calms down, days later. Other than the known fact that stabbing the Dark One with his/her dagger will transfer the powers, everything else the fairy wrote is just speculation and much of it _is_ hogwash. But the fairy quotes a prediction: "'When black and white shall unite, all rivers shall bleed and all roads shall lead into one, for Time and Distance will be broken and hold no sway.'"

"I hate these damn writers that think by wrapping everything in mysterious metaphors they're creating something people will take seriously," Gold grumbles to Belle. "Why can't they just say 'Two parts elf claw, one part unicorn horn and bake at 450 for 30 minutes?'"

She giggles. "Where's the poetry in that?"

"If I wanted poetry, I'd read Robert Burns. It's a formula I want."

* * *

><p>"Josiah, are you in there?" But the bird is preoccupied with the toy bell hanging from the roof of its cage. Gold sits down at his table and watches, hoping for an indication that Dove somehow remembers who he is, who they are. "Josiah?"<p>

The bird ignores him. Gold clears a space on the table and conjures a box of dominoes. He glances up, but the bird isn't watching, so he plays both sides.

"They have no idea," he mutters, laying a tile for Dove. "Not even Belle. Sympathetic as she is, still, she was born a noble, respected. Beautiful, and so she was admired. Snow too: noble, beautiful." He lays the next tile with a snap; his teeth grit. "He's the worst: born poor, but tall and handsome and strong. He has no idea what it's like." Gold can't bring himself to say the name of the man he envies. "Puny. Homely. Short." He bites the words. "Runtling." He glances at the bird. "That's what he called me–my own father. Unless he was drunk, and then it was 'the whore's worthless spawn.'" He sets another tile, his voice shaking. "Not even the suits and the Cadillac can make me charming. None of them know one damn thing about it." Except Emma: even when she's laughing with Henry, Gold can see the fear in her eyes. Once abandoned, never secure. Still, she has power of her own and no one's asking her to give it up.

Then again, her power didn't get her best friend turned into a bird, did it? And her power isn't keeping her from her son, so what does she know?

"Take it away and what am I?" He lays another tile. "Just a lame runtling in an expensive suit. How can I protect myself and my family if I give up my magic?" He watches the bird for a reaction that doesn't come. "Magic is what I was meant to be. Give it up, when it's what makes me myself? No one has a right to ask that of another." It's the same as asking Josiah to give up his humanity.

"Take it away and I'm dust." Take it away and Josiah is a man again. Take it away and Regina lives. Take it away and Henry, Emma and Bae have a chance to find each other. Take it away and give Belle a husband she can respect. Take it away and break down all the barriers between Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire.

Not Belle or Bae. The choice has never been either Belle or Bae. The choice is either the Dark One or Belle and Bae. Choose them, lose himself. Save himself, lose them.

Wild-eyed, Gold raises his head from the game. The dove is staring at him.

* * *

><p>Though she's no chemist–and on multiple occasions, her efforts spoil the potion they're brewing–Blue shows a natural affinity for herbal medicine. Her magic can quickly diagnose illness or injury, and her ever broadening and deepening knowledge of the native plants in this part of Maine enables her to prescribe successful treatments. She has a delicate touch that enables her to produce intricate healing potions.<p>

"You have a gift," Gold tells her on the day she manages to blend three herbs together that he can't get to combine. "You could serve this town well as a Healer, save a lot of people from surgery."

She blushes. Pale-faced, five-hundred-year-old Blue actually blushes. "I never explored this art before. With fairy dust, I could cure most illnesses or injuries immediately. But now that our diamond supply is nearly depleted, it helps to have an alternative."

She's thawing, he thinks; she will never understand humans because fairies lack passion and impulse, but she's warming up a bit. And if the Reul Ghorm can change, ever so slightly, like an iceberg being shaped by the sea, can't the Dark One? He suspects she's having an effect on him too, though he's hard pressed to identify it, thick-skinned old crocodile that he is.

Belle gives him her funny little smile when he compliments Blue's healing talent. He finds it necessary to backpedal, pointing out her tendency to blow things up–she's wrecked the lab four times and singed Josiah's feathers (with her talent she healed him instantly). "I'm proud of you," Belle says when they're alone.

"Me? I've accomplished nothing. I'm no closer to breaking that curse than I was two months ago. I've made no progress whatsoever."

"I wouldn't say that."

* * *

><p>After supper and the dishes and the homework are all done, the family adjourns to the living room for a little television before bed. Belle and Gold exchange a glance: it's Monday and <em>The Best of the Boston Ballet<em> is on, but Henry and Emma have no interest in high culture. Belle smiles at Gold—she doesn't mind at all; there will time enough for ballets and symphonies; they should enjoy their family while they can. So she hands Henry the remote and invites him to take control of the Ultra HD 4K (which Henry's already suggested Emma buy when they move into their own apartment).

Henry flips around, grazing among the fifty channels, thankfully bypassing the Kardashians and _Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo_, before he settles on an original _Star Trek_. Henry sprawls across the carpet, Emma seated on the floor beside him, while on the couch Belle offers her lap as Gold's pillow.

Emma smiles up at them. "This is nice." Then she focuses on the television.

Gold half-listens to the episode. He picks up Belle's hand from his hip and laces his fingers through hers, brings their joined hands up to his chest, to his heart. It's her left hand. He will put a ring on that hand someday soon.

On the screen, an oversized Apollo is bemoaning the _Enterprise_'s crew's rejection of him. "I would have loved you as a father loves his children. Did I ask so much?"

Captain Kirk rather callously replies, "We've outgrown you."

"I feel sorry for Apollo," Belle says. "It must be awful, to be left behind like that."

After the episode is over, Henry sits up. "Grandpa, were there really gods in the Enchanted Forest? My book says you and the Reul Ghorm were the oldest and most powerful of all the magical beings. Did you ever meet any gods? Or were you like a god?"

Gold's eyes fly open. His mouth opens and closes and opens again as he sits up. "Not like a god, no, I, ah, well—"

"Yeah, 'Grandpa,' tell us about the old days," Emma teases.

"Yes, well, I have seen quite a number of old days," he quips. "But—are you sure you want to get into this now, Henry? It's nearly your bedtime."

Emma looks at the clock on the cable box. "He's right. We'll have to save this discussion for the weekend. Off to bed, young man." She grabs her son's arm and hauls him to his feet, and they patter up the stairs, Henry still yakking about the Greek and Roman mythology he's been taught in school.

"Dodged that bullet," Gold sighs.

"Not so fast, my darling. Henry's got me curious now: did you ever meet any gods?"

"Sweetheart, I was just Number 33 in a line of Dark Ones. Why would a god have any interest in me?"

"Because you were the most powerful mage in the universe for three hundred years." She kisses his nose. "And you were the smartest."

"Well, I can't argue with you there. But no, I never met any gods. . . as far as I know. I understand the gods of olden times liked to transform themselves into animals when they went slumming, so who can say for sure?"

"But I do think we should tell Henry about the Enchanted Forest someday," Belle protests. "It's his heritage. I can tell him about Avonlea, but you have such a wider and deeper view of history than I do." She bats her eyelashes playfully.

"Is that a sly remark about my age, dearie?" He wags a finger at her. "Perhaps I should throw you over my shoulder like the caveman I am and haul you off to bed too."

She flips her hair at him. "I'd like to see you try." Before she can catch her breath, she's naked, standing in the shower, with water drenching her and an equally naked albeit middle-aged boyfriend reaching around her for the shampoo.

But as he shows her just how much energy an old man can muster, he's still reflecting on Henry's questions and Kirk's easy dismissal of the Powers That Were.

* * *

><p>As he watches Belle sleep, the Dark One wonders what's come over him. Soft, he's grown soft in his body and soft in his soul. This one sleeping beside him has robbed him of his strength. Those sleeping down the hallway, and the bird sleeping in the laundry room, and even the fairy sleeping in the convent, they have made him weak. A weak Dark One is a very dangerous thing, vulnerable, ready to have his powers plucked from him, because for the Dark One there is no source of protection but himself: no law to guard him, no friends to shelter him, no army to come to his defense.<p>

Even worse, he's a Dark One associating with the Reul Ghorm. Good gods, the balance between good and evil will unhinge. The universe will go careening off into chaos any day now.

Then a sound in the hallway alerts the Dark One: a door creaking open, footfalls across the wooden floor, another door clicking shut. Then there's another sound and the Dark One fades away as Gold the father takes over, his heart filling with warmth at the sound a toilet flushing.

His family, safe and comfortable in the home he and Belle provide for them. This is what he wants, not the Dark thoughts, not the scent of blood, not revenge or people cowering. And as for the delicate balance between good and evil, who's to say that a truce between the Reul Ghorm and the Dark One has unbalanced anything? Maybe it's exactly what the Fates have planned. A time for change. Maybe the next generation's Dark One and Reul Ghorm will carve out a new path. Or maybe it's time for the Dark One and the Reul Ghorm to come to an end: maybe the universe doesn't need them any more. _We've outgrown you._

* * *

><p>"Do you enjoy having your powers back?" Gold makes his tone casual, doesn't even look at Blue as he asks the question. "Here, hand me that jar of King of Bitters, please." She does and he taps a sprinkle of it into his beaker.<p>

"Enjoy?" she repeats thoughtfully. "Well. . . ."

His eyebrows rise. He's never known a magic practitioner who didn't enjoy the power.

"I wonder," she says slowly.

"Wonder? What's to wonder?"

"You know, I was born with magic. Until Emma broke the curse, I had no point of comparison. But now that I know what it's like to be human. . . ." She hands him a glass pipette and a bottle of alonin. "But it's a moot point, isn't it? Magic is my destiny. It's why I was created: so I can serve mankind through magic. And I really do enjoy creating healing potions. I've been working with Dr. Whale, and I think we're making progress in bringing some feeling back into Micky Nesmith's legs. We have hope he may walk again. So yes, I enjoy that aspect of magic, very much."

"In all your books, did you ever come across any speculation about. . . an end to us, to the Dark One and the Reul Ghorm? Where we wouldn't exist any more?"

She falls silent. He looks over his shoulder at her; she's gone pale.

"This world doesn't need the likes of us, does it?" he asks softly.

"But the old world—I believe some realms still need our kind." She wipes her hands on her apron. "I believe the Enchanted Forest, even now, needs our kind. The people Regina left behind, I think they need our kind."

"They haven't forgotten us, after thirty years?"

"Us?" She gestures to herself and him. "You and me, yes. I think they've forgotten us. But I think the Fates have replaced us. The universe can't tolerate a void."

He blinks. "A new Dark One and Reul Ghorm."

"Yes. I think so."

He tries to quip, "Good thing we're not going back, then, or it'd be a showdown at the OK Corral."

"Not for me." She purses her lips. "If there's another Reul Ghorm, I say, let her have the job. I'm a nun now, and that's a commitment I cherish."

"You didn't choose it, though. You had no more choice in it than you did with your former occupation."

She spreads her hands. "This may surprise you, Rumplestiltskin, especially after talking to all those families whose lives were disrupted, but for some of us, it wasn't a matter of making the best of what the curse gave us—it was a matter of us making the best of us. Regina probably thought she was punishing me by making me human, but I think I'm better for it—and I've thanked her."

"You're kidding."

"No. I visit her in the evenings; it's part of my duty as a nun: 'For I was in prison and you came to me.'" Her face scrunches up. "To be honest with you, at first I thought it was a waste of time. She will never change, and she'll only revile me, so why should I go to her, when there are families out there who'd be glad to see me? And it seems I was right about her, but I've found those visits have changed me."

He swallows hard. "And me? You're not coming here for the lab work, are you? Have I been—a waste of time?"

"We haven't broken the curse yet, but I'd say we've broken other barriers. I've enjoyed getting to know you, Mr. Gold, and your wonderful family. The love between you and them is a transformative power that transcends anything magic can do, and it's been a privilege for me to observe it at work. If you don't mind just one piece of advice?"

Here it comes: the lecture. But she surprises him by leaning in conspiratorially. "Marry her. Show her how strong your trust in her is—and how much your faith in yourself has grown."

The three-hundred-year-old imp blushes. "Working on it."

"And here, in this world, I think you're right: this world doesn't need a Dark One or a Reul Ghorm." She touches his arm, and this time his skin doesn't burn. "But _us_, Blue and Rumplestiltskin, I think there's a need for us. Micky Nesmith would say so. Henry would say so. And about sixty families who got free legal aid would say so." She pauses to consider. "What I think is that the Dark One and the Reul Ghorm were left behind in the Enchanted Forest when the curse created Storybrooke. And what's left—us—are a couple of magic-using humans who haven't realized that yet. Or maybe we just don't want to. Let's face it: when you've been an icon for as long as we have, it's hard to change."

"But you think we have."

"I think we're humans now. Very old and magic-possessing, yes, but ordinary, flawed humans."

He surveys his heart as he studies her, and then he realizes, "I don't hate you any more."

"And I don't fear you any more." She hands him a tin of powdered Devil's Breath.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

"Henry, how about if we go shopping this evening?"

The boy grins. "Need a new iPad again? I told you, Grandpa, hittin' it with a cane won't make it stop buffering."

"No, I thought we might pay a visit to Mr. Browning's."

"The tailor?"

"I promised you a proper dress suit. And while we're at it, we ought to take a look at tuxes."

"Huh?"

"After that, we'll stop by the video store, and then some ice cream at Amy's."

As Gold ushers Henry into the Caddy, he's determined to make the most of this grandfather-grandson outing. . . just in case, when the trial ends, Henry doesn't want anything more to do with him.

* * *

><p>The trial is over. Regina's been pronounced guilty. Snow will pronounce sentence, but she needs to consult with some advisers first.<p>

Gold's been invited to the royal war council meeting in the City Council Chambers, not because he's a leader, nor because he's a councilor or a town elder, but because he's an expert on all things magic. Belle too, partly by her association with him, partly by her own developing expertise on the same subject, has been invited. Blue, Jefferson, Marco, Whale, Leroy, Archie and the Lucases round out the invited. At the head of the tables (for they're meeting in the diner and four tables have been pushed together) are the royals.

"I've asked you in to generate some ideas for Regina's sentence," Snow begins. "It's not just about punishing her; it's about keeping this town safe from her. We can't punish her as we would anyone else. Put her in regular prison and she'll simply magic right out."

"Execute her," Leroy blurts, as if it's obvious.

"That's not what we do in this world," Archie objects. "In this world, we believe in second chances."

Leroy squints. "You goody-goodies forget it's what she'd do to any of us, in a heartbeat."

"Well, we're better than that."

"I want to hear other options before I consider that one," Snow announces. Gold remembers her first attempt to execute Regina: he doubts if she can attempt it again.

David suggests. "Ban her to another realm, but we don't have the means to open a portal, do we?" He raises an eyebrow at Jefferson, who shakes his head.

"Leave her where she is," Marco suggests.

"The fairy dust supply is running out," Blue points out. "We have enough for six days."

"A sleeping spell," Emma suggests. "Like she tried to do to my mom. As a temporary fix, until we figure out something better."

Belle shakes her head. "It would be a passive form of execution, Em. The only way to break a sleeping curse—"

"Is True Love's Kiss," Emma concludes. Her face falls. "And that's not an option for Regina." She glances hopefully at Gold. "Not even if Henry kissed her?"

"For True Love to exist, it must exist on both sides," he answers. "Pure and unselfish."

"'Love is patient. Love is kind,'" Belle quotes. "'It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs—'"

Gold picks up the quotation. "'Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes.'" Belle grasps his hand and beams at him; he feels as though they've just spoken wedding vows, here in this company of friends and allies and not-friends.

Blue has closed her eyes, listening. "'Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears.'"

"'Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.'" Gold smiles at Belle, the one who fully knows him.

The room has fallen silent, most of its occupants looking puzzled or impatient to get back to the argument; Snow's agape in wonder.

Gold shrugs. "That's why True Love's Kiss won't work with Regina. Henry can deliver, but she can't." The words they've just spoken itch at the back of his mind: he's afraid what's true about Regina is true about him too. He loves Belle, but his love falls short. It always will.

"How about if we send her across the town line," Jefferson offers. "The barrier's been strengthened; she won't be able to cross back over. She won't even remember Storybrooke or any of us. We'll be safe from her. Henry will be protected. The world out there will be protected, because she'll have no magic. Her memory will be reset to a time before she acquired magic."

Snow looks to Gold. "So that would be age eighteen, wouldn't it? I remember the first time you came to the Spiral Castle; it was three or four months after my father died."

"No," Gold corrects her. "She summoned me for the first time when she was sixteen. The power was with her then, very strong, though she didn't realize it. But if she is returned to the time before magic touched her. . . she will cease to exist; her mother was a sorceress, so Regina was born into magic."

"That would be a quick and painless execution," Leroy points out. "Satisfied, Hopper?"

The psychiatrist sputters. "No! No execution!"

"You think she deserves to live, after everything she's done?" Marco breaks in. "All the families she broke up, the children who grew up without their parents—" his voice cracks. "My boy. . . You tell them, Gold. You saw those children."

Gold nods but before he can speak, Hopper continues, "Not for her sake! I'm not asking you to spare her; I'm asking you to think of those families, those friends"—he squeezes Marco's shoulder. "How can they heal if Regina's executed?"

"How can they heal if they don't get justice?" Marco interrupts.

"How will that make anyone feel better, if we as a society commit murder? Let her live her life in prison, as a reminder that we punish evil, but we do it in an honorable—"

"Execution is a just and fair punishment, where we come from," David interjects. "In some cases, it's absolutely necessary for public safety. And in some cases, like this one, it's actually the humane thing. Even if we could find a way to keep her in prison without the fairy dust—"

"Gotta be a way to take her magic away." Whale adds. "Electroshock, a drug—"

"Not possible," Blue interrupts. "We've researched the question thoroughly. It's not possible to take a sorcerer's magic away."

"She'd whack any of us in a New York minute! Man up, people! We got kids to protect here!"

Snow stands and slaps her hand on the table. "People, please! Can we have some order here?" She glares at Leroy. "Some decorum? We're not here to debate her character or even what punishment she deserves. We're here to figure out what punishments are _possible_, since our resources are running out."

"You got any ideas, Gold?" David redirects everyone's attention.

Emma nudges Gold. "Help us, Obi-wan Stiltskin. You're our only hope."

In his hands, Gold is turning over and over a comb he's swiped from Belle's tote bag. He doesn't look up.

"Well?" Leroy demands. "What about it, Stiltskin? Come on, don't just sit there all smug and smart-assy. And we ain't makin' any deals for the information, either. You owe us."

Gold returns the comb to the tote bag and look up at Snow. "I don't have a solution at hand for you, Your Majesty."

"But you could get one?" Emma latches onto his phrasing—she's learned a lot about interpreting his particular use of words.

"Probably not." He stands, then bends to say to Belle, "I'll be in my lab, sweetheart, if you need me for anything." And he walks away.

* * *

><p>Unsure footsteps make the stairs leading into the basement creak. Gold glances up from the tome he's translating to find Henry, in carpet slippers and striped pajamas, coming slowly down. The father in him pushes Gold to chastise Henry for being up so late, but the grandfather in him tells the father to shut up. The puffiness under the boy's eyes shows that Emma's told him the verdict.<p>

Wisely, for once, Gold remains silent, leaving it to Henry to make the first move. At the foot of the stairs, Henry lets his gaze wander over the lab equipment, the potions and powders, and the bird perched on his grandfather's shoulder. Then he moves a little closer. This isn't his first visit to the lab, but he knows that for the untrained, this can be a treacherous place. "Hi."

"Hi," Gold replies.

"Thanks for the Happy Trails box set. Oh, and the clothes."

Gold holds back a smile: Bae was the same way; he'd start a request for a favor with an expression of gratitude for a previous favor. "You're welcome."

"Emma told me about the verdict."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Henry."

"She didn't say what would happen to my mom."

"It hasn't been decided yet."

"There's got to be a way," Henry blurts, waving at the lab equipment. "So they don't kill her."

Gold also stares at the equipment, seeing it through Henry's eyes.

"Please, I know you can do it." The anxiety on the boy's face is an adult's. "She's done a lot of bad things but she doesn't deserve to die."

Gold pretends to examine a vial so he doesn't have to look at Henry.

Then Henry makes his voice cold, reminding Gold of himself. "She's no different than you."

When Gold doesn't reply, Henry starts back up the stairs. Gold calls him back. "Henry. . . I'm working on it."

"You're not working hard enough."

As Gold's mouth falls open, Henry runs up the stairs.

The bird pecks at Gold's scalp. "Ow!"

* * *

><p>Gold walks over to the jail, walking, rather than transporting himself, because he wants to think and the quiet night permits his thoughts to roam. He's still imagining the comb. . . .<p>

Sleepy, who's taken some No-Doz and is sipping cappuccino, is guarding Regina. This is a particularly dangerous phase of her punishment, while her physical and mental state fluctuate. Four days of fairy dust left. Four days for Snow to pass sentence.

Sleepy glances up from _Teresa of the Faint Smile _as Gold enters. He looks doubtful, then makes up his mind and nods when Gold asks to speak to the prisoner. "Go ahead. I don't think you're likely to try to bust her out, after what she did to Belle."

Shooting the dwarf a scowl for his intrusiveness, Gold seats himself on the blue naugahyde couch and watches Regina. The witch, seated in a posture that mirrors his, glares back at him. It's a staring contest, then, a childish staring contest that they're reduced to, after years of insults, threats, lies and double-crosses. But she's too wan and worn to fight, and he doesn't have the stomach to fight one who can't squabble back. Or maybe it's just the fairy dust getting to him already, making him weak.

He blinks first. "'Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.' Do you still feel that way, Regina?"

She rolls her eyes. "What are you talking about? You're not going to suggest I get on my knees and beg Snow White for my life, are you?"

"Of course not. But you once traded your magic for the satisfaction you thought revenge would bring. Would you trade again for your life?" When her face remains immobile, he tries, "Or a chance to be with Henry, occasionally?"

"This is a joke, isn't it? Rubbing it in–"

"I'm serious."

Now her brows relax. "I'm listening."

"If it were possible–not saying it is–but if it were possible to surrender your magic in return for your life and your freedom–say, being exiled from Storybrooke, but perhaps a couple of times a year, Henry would visit you, under supervision, would you accept that deal and honor your end of it?"

"Is this coming from the Charmings?"

"No. I think it could be, though."

She pinches her mouth together. "I heard the nitwits talking. If you send me across the town line, unless you find another breech in the boundary, I'll vanish, won't I?"

"That's not how I propose stripping you of your magic."

"Then how?"

"Right now it's just a theory, but if I could do as I say, would you agree to surrender your magic?"

"Ridiculous question. Who wouldn't choose freedom and family over magic?"

"I didn't. If I can make it happen, would you live up to your end: accept the loss of your power and a permanent exile?"

"And Henry will come to see me twice a year."

"Supervised, possibly with Ms. Swan, possibly me." Gold flashes his teeth at her. "And my wife, Belle."

Regina raises an eyebrow. "Wife. I suppose you win, then." When he doesn't rise to the bait, she continues the negotiation–though they both know it's a flimsy gamble she's taking, counting on the fairy dust to run out before Snow decides on a sentence, or Snow to back down at the last minute and release her rather than execute her. "Two weeks for each visit. And when Henry is eighteen, he's free to see me whenever he wants."

"I may make that proposal to Snow." Gold stands. His eyes are burning, his head aching from the dust.

"_May_? Screw you, Rumple. You're just jerking me around, aren't you?"

"No, Regina, believe it or not, for once, I'm being straight with you. I told you, this is just a theory right now. If I can make it reality, I'll propose it to Snow." He starts for the exit.

She calls out after him, "Well, don't theorize too long."

* * *

><p>"How did you bring magic here?"<p>

Blue has asked that question three times. The first two times, he answered with quips. The third time, he answered more respectfully. "Someday I'll tell you, but not yet."

But he's ready today. It's a foot forward, testing the solidarity of the groundwork these past months have laid. Because as the weeks have passed and no other solution has turned up, he's moved closer and closer to the certainty that what he doesn't want to do—the price he dreads paying—is the only solution. And with only two days of fairy dust remaining and no sentence rendered yet from Snow, he needs to act soon. But this test of trust must come first.

When she arrives for the day's experiments, her arms laden with baskets of plants and seeds, he takes her instead into the living room. "You've been asking me how I brought magic to Storybrooke." He licks his lips unconsciously. "I'm ready to tell you."

She sets the baskets at her feet, smooths her skirt and folds her hands.

He stares at a stain on the carpet—Henry spilled grape juice there last night; Gold will fix it with magic, but not just yet. He kind of likes having a few stains and broken things around: it comes with having kids in the house. He's thinking of Henry as he begins his story.

In general terms–for he is still an acquisitive, secretive soul and it took him two centuries to find the right formula–he tells Blue how he bottled True Love. . . and why. She listens in awed silence and her expression becomes quizzical. He assumes it's the historic achievement she's impressed with, but when he finishes his story, the fairy cocks her head. "I knew you loved your son, in a fashion, and I know you love Belle, to whatever extent a Dark One can love. But I didn't know that you honored love so."

"Oh, I'm quite the fan, in all its permutations," he quips to cover his discomfort. He's gone too far, talked too much: revealed to her his weakness. He blusters like Rumplestiltskin then, as if there's so much to do today he can barely decide where to start. "Now, just a thought, just an experiment, but what if the same procedure I used to bottle True Love were to, I don't know, be used to try to bottle the opposite?"

"True Hate?" Blue queries.

"For convenience we can call it that. But more precisely, a combination of opposing forces."

"I would suppose something horrible would happen. Hate can only produce–"

"Destruction," he finishes. "At least, that's my theory. If True Love creates magic—"

"True Hate destroys it." Blue sits back in her chair to mull it over. "Maybe. . . . Or maybe something worse."

Gold shrugs and stands. "Just a thought. Come, let's get back to that muscle-building potion for Micky."

As they walk down to the basement, Blue continues to ponder. "Where would you even find the ingredients? You'd need the hair of two people who truly hate each other."

"The two I thought to be the most likely candidates, it turns out, no longer qualify." He glances sideways at her. "Yes, you're right. Forget it. It was just a wild idea." _Dodged that bullet_. But his stomach's in knots.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

A cup of coffee in his hand, Gold settles into his Barcalounger. Henry, sprawled on the floor, doesn't acknowledge him or even glance away from the television.

"Hey, Henry."

"Hey." But Henry still doesn't look around.

Gold decides to confront the matter head-on. "Mad at me?"

"You could help her."

Gold tastes his coffee, buying time to choose his words. "You give me credit for power I don't have."

Now Henry glares at him. "Yes, you could. I can see it in your face."

"There are. . . different kinds of ability, Henry. A man might be . . . physically capable of doing something, but not emotionally capable."

Henry returns his gaze to the television. "A man can change."

Gold lets the comment go unanswered; instead, he looks at the television. His heart lifts a little when he learns that Henry's watching a western. An Apache warrior is confronting a tall, skinny guy. Gold settles in: he's in the mood for an uncomplicated western right now, and he's hoping during the course of the program, Henry will be reminded of this bond between them and thaw a little.

The Apache attacks the tall, skinny guy—and the tall, skinny guy responds with a series of kicks, sidesteps, body throws, and open-handed punches.

"Cool," Henry murmurs, and Gold grabs this opportunity to open a new topic.

"What is this?"

Henry forgets he's angry; he grins over his shoulder. "Never saw John Wayne fight like that, huh? This is an old TV show called _Kung Fu_. That guy there"—he points at the tall fighter, who's now defeated the Apache and has chosen to spare his opponent's life—"is a priest, but he was trained in martial arts."

"Apparently, effectively."

"Yeah. He kicks a—uh, butt. But he doesn't want to, see, because he's a priest, but sometimes he has to. His name's Kwai Chang Caine."

"You've seen this show before?"

"It's one of the box sets we bought the other day. Cool, huh?"

"Unusual." Gold would have preferred something traditional and simple, after a full day in the lab, but he needs to win Henry back, so he will remain here a while and watch for opportunities to connect.

He doesn't consider the possibility that he doesn't really need to win Henry back. Whether Emma, Henry and the Charmings agree or not, Gold needs Henry and, he believes, vice versa. Each is all the link the other has right now to Bae.

As the story unfolds, the half-Chinese priest is seeking to learn more about his long-deceased American father.

_"A name, a face in my mind, a place. It is all I know of my father_."

Guilt stabs at Gold; he glances at Henry. A name, a face in a photo, and an address are all the boy knows of Bae.

Caine reaches out to his father's father, but the older man's racial prejudice stands between. _"I should have died before I saw you. Let me be dead before I see you again."_

A chill rushes up Gold's spine at the horrible words. Bae—is that how Bae feels about Rumplestiltskin?

But a surrogate family emerges for Caine: a mute teenager and an elderly evangelist who offer Caine refuge in their halfway house. In return, Caine counsels the evangelist when the man is blinded:

_"Are you alive?"_

_"Blinded."_

_"Yes."_

_"Helpless."_

_"Not helpless. I can teach you. You need not be helpless."_

_"Useless."_

_"Not useless either. Your congregation needs you."_

Gold's coffee cup rattles on its saucer. He sets it on the coffee table, but his hand continues to tremble. . .with magic, yes, but with emotion. A blind evangelist can still fulfill his destiny, but a sorcerer stripped of magic surely is of use to no one, not even himself, and especially not his family. Helpless. And yet the choice remains, the choice Gold hasn't been able to make: the Dark One or Belle and Bae—and now Henry.

With Caine's guidance, the evangelist finds his inner vision and achieves his dream of building a church. Ah, Gold mentally snorts, but that's television. All problems solved in an hour.

On the screen, the evangelist confronts Caine's grandfather: _"All these years you've blamed someone else—your son, your grandson—because you didn't have courage enough to look at yourself."_

Gold looks down at his hands, glowing with magic.

On the screen, the elder Caine addresses his grandson: _"I have nothing to give you."_

_"Through you," _Kwai Chang replies,_ "I have a father, a grandfather, a great-grandfather,_ _stretching back to the roots of time."_

_"You have a brother. Find him."_

The episode concludes with Kwai Chang setting out to find his brother. Henry casts a quick glance over his shoulder. "When will we find my father?"

Gold clears his throat. "I'll find a way. We—Belle and Blue and I—will find a way." Hastily he pushes himself up from the recliner and thumps off to the bathroom to wash his face, to wash away thoughts that threaten his resolve. _You didn't have courage enough to look at yourself_.

* * *

><p>Barefoot in her white satin gown, Belle appears before him, silent as a ghost. She squints into the darkness, following his gaze to flickers of pale light moving slowly, rhythmically in the garden. Gold's barely conscious of her and barely breathing, lost as he is in the scene his imagination has created for him, in the second life his magic has created. She seats herself beside him on the porch swing and watches the figures in his mind play out in the dark garden, flickers of light moving in silence like the images on a television screen with the volume turned down: Emma and Belle in sundresses, seated at a wrought iron table, sipping iced tea and chatting; Gold, in jeans and a denim shirt, seated at a matching table, drinking beer and playing dominoes with Josiah; Baelfire, pushing Henry in a swing.<p>

Gold watches the scene unblinking until the warm, breathing Belle beside him takes his hand, summoning him back to life. He blinks then, breaking the enchantment, and his imaginary family vanishes.

"It's not too much to ask for, is it?" he asks her.

"It's just across the boundary," she assures him.

He gets it then. "_I'm_ the boundary. It's me that's keeping us away from this."

She holds his hand as he stares into his empty garden.

* * *

><p>Blue reduces her time in the lab so she can increase her time in the jail. Regina's declined, lapsing in and out of lucidity. "Two days of dust left," Blue reminds Gold—unnecessarily.<p>

* * *

><p>It's past midnight. Everyone else has gone to bed, but Belle comes downstairs to seek her bed partner. She finds him in the living room, in the dark except for the light of the television. He's focused on the screen, but he shifts in his recliner to make a space for her, and she cuddles up beside him. "It's almost over," he informs her. "A few more minutes and we'll go to bed."<p>

She rests her head on his chest and he runs his hand along her back, seemingly to soothe her, but probably to soothe himself. "What're you watching?"

"A TV series Henry picked out at the video store." He points to the screen, where a young woman is giving birth. "She was raped. Her brother died trying avenge her honor. Kwai Chang Caine's been looking out for her."

The scene moves to a flashback. 'The kid, that's Kwai Chang, and the guy instructing him is Master Po."

_"Fear is the enemy; trust is the armor_," Po advises._ "He who conquers himself is the greatest warrior. Do what must be done with a docile heart."_

Returning to the main story, the girl's father tries to persuade Caine to kill her attackers. _"If I don't have a right to revenge, who does?"_

Caine answers and walks away. _"No one."_

"Wow, that's different," Belle says.

He smooths her hair down. "Belle, do you—you have as much a claim against Regina as anybody. What do you think her sentence should be?"

She raises her head from his chest to study him. "You were going to ask me if I want revenge."

"Yes."

She frowns. "Yes, I do. But I'm doing my best not to." She thinks about it some more. "But what I want for the three of us is for Snow to find a way to balance justice with hope."

"What they could do to her, they could do to me." His hands drop to his sides. "That would be justice. As long as I have magic, though, they won't come for me."

"That's not the only difference between you and Regina. There are other reasons they won't come for you."

"You," he guesses.

"No, _you_. You've changed."

He shakes his head. "Not enough." Before she can debate the matter, he uses the remote to click the television off. "It's late. We'd better go to bed."

* * *

><p>In the morning when Belle awakes Gold is sitting up in bed, waiting for her. He's already partially dressed, in shirt and slacks; his tie and jacket rest on a hanger hooked to the top of the closet door. A flicker of disappointment crosses her face: since he'll be wearing a suit, that means he's going into town for something; and since he's already halfway dressed, that means there's no time for morning lovemaking. But she shakes off her disappointment and gives him a small smile. "Morning."<p>

He reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a brown envelope that he sets in his lap. His hand rests on it, drawing her attention to it. "Belle, I've been withholding information, and I'm sorry." Coward that he is, he isn't ready yet to tell her everything, but he will start small to test his strength. He still has one more day to work up his courage.

"What is it, Rumple?" She's still dull with sleep.

"Three weeks ago, a two-bedroom house on Begbie Street came available."

"For Emma," Belle blinks.

"I'll tell her today." He hangs his head. "I don't know why I didn't tell her sooner."

Belle sets her hand on his. "Yes, you do. And I'm glad for it."

"Glad I didn't tell her?"

"Glad you felt the need to keep them close a little while longer." She leans over to kiss his cheek. "And glad you found it in you today to let them go."

* * *

><p>Gold drops in at the jail. He ignores Regina's cursing and heads straight for Emma's office. In his hand is a brown envelope—in fact, it's the same envelope in which she delivered Neal's photograph. "For you, Emma." He slides the envelope across the desk.<p>

She lifts the tab. "Well, I know it's not ice cream." She empties the contents onto her desk: a lease form, an index card upon which an address is written and a set of keys.

"I've been holding out on you, I'm afraid." He reddens. "This property came open three weeks ago. Two bedrooms, a study, fully furnished, garage, a big backyard, two blocks from the middle school. You'll have to provide your own lawn mower, though."

"Sounds wonderful. Can I afford it on a public servant's salary?" She grins at him. "I have a feeling I can."

"You have connections with the landlord." He smiles back.

"Fan-fudgin'-tastic!" Emma grabs her phone. "Can I move in tonight?"

"If you like." He turns away.

"Gold," she calls after him. "Thanks for holding out on me. I—it was nice, you know? Getting to know you and Belle."

He nods. "It was a pleasure, Emma. You and Henry. . . will be missed."

"Gold?" she calls out again and he pauses. "Bagels or donuts tomorrow?"

He grins at her.

* * *

><p>The last of Emma's bags is tossed into the bed of David's F150; on the backseat of the Bug, carefully packed in a box, are Henry's X-Box and collection of games, bought by Belle as a parting gift. In Henry's wallet is a receipt for the tux that Mr. Browning is tailoring for Henry; besides Gold, of course, only Emma knows about this tux, and Henry will keep the secret because he adores Belle and doesn't want to spoil the proposal Gold has planned.<p>

His silence is _not_ an indication of loyalty to Gold. Although he loves his grandfather, Henry's angry now, very angry, and he hasn't kept his anger a secret. He's wielded it hard and often with Gold, and when Emma asked the reason for his attitude, Henry told her outright: he believes Gold could save Regina but won't because of the rivalry that's always existed between them. Gold doesn't disavow him of that notion. It's preferable to revealing the truth: to save Regina, Gold would have to sacrifice magic, and he hates that worse than he hates Regina.

The night Henry broke this news, Emma drew Gold into his study to ask, in private, whether Henry's right. Gold answered, truthfully, he's had a half-baked plan that might or might not work. Emma spread her hands: "So why are you standing here? Why aren't you doing whatever you need to do to kick your plan in its mushy ass?" The price, he told her, would be very high and the risk, great. Emma pursed her lips. "Yeah. I know all about prices and risks. I've got my own to juggle." And she glanced at the photo of Bae sitting on Gold's desk before walking out. She said no more about the half-baked plan.

Gold and Belle follow Emma and Henry to the Bug. "See ya there," David calls, backing the Ford out of Gold's driveway.

Emma gives Belle a firm hug, then offers Gold a handshake. "Thanks, you guys. You went above and beyond."

"Our pleasure," Belle says. "It was fun having you here. The house will seem empty without you."

"We'll drop by now and then, and I expect you to come see us—not just on rent day, either." Emma throws Gold a mischievous grin, then spontaneously grabs the old man in a bear hug. "You take care, huh?"

"If there's anything you need, you know where to find us." Gold surprises everyone by kissing her forehead.

Henry has an affectionate hug for Belle, but when it's Gold's turn to say farewell to him, he merely offers a handshake. Gold's face crumbles for just a second before he pulls his dignity together and accepts the handshake.

"Thanks for letting us stay with you," Henry says stiffly.

"You're welcome, Henry," Gold replies. "I love you."

Emma and Belle, who had been chatting about brands of toasters, break off their conversation. They look at Gold—Emma in surprise, Belle in pride—and then they look at Henry, whose anger breaks at his grandfather's simple confession. The boy grabs Gold in a hug, and Gold, stroking his hair, says lowly, "I'm trying, Henry. I really am trying."

"Bye, Grandpa." The boy releases Gold and climbs into the Bug. "See ya later."

"Bye, Henry."

* * *

><p>Gold's waiting at the foot of the stairs when Belle patters down in the morning. He offers her a cup of coffee. "I didn't sleep much either," she says.<p>

Today is the last day.

His voice is nasal and his eyes heavy from lack of sleep. "Belle, I need to talk to you."

The urgency in his voice wakes her up. "Of course." She refastens the belt of her bathrobe and sits down at her usual place at the kitchen table. Through the open windows they hear vehicles rumbling down Gold Boulevard and birds chirping. He sits across from her and takes her hand. His mouth twists in a struggle between his mind and his heart, but there's only today left. He can delay no longer.

_Trust is the armor_.

"I need your help. A decision I—we—need to make."

She beams at him, her eyes lit with pride, and that makes it so much easier for him to conquer himself. He expects she will chastise him when he confesses what he's known for several weeks now, but when the pride in her eyes doesn't dissipate, the words pour out of him. He finds the heaviness in his chest lifts and he can breathe freely, and her hand in his anchors him.

Even before she provides the counsel he's asked for, he knows what he—what they—will do, and when she gives voice to their decision, he embraces her. "Yes," he replies. "Let's go call Blue."

"And Snow."


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

As Gold and Belle are dressing, the phone rings. It's Emma, reporting the sentencing decision from Snow: at 6pm, Regina is to be bound with handcuffs laced with the last of the fairy dust, taken to an undisclosed location—for this is not to become a media circus—and executed by firing squad, with Snow's war council standing witness. Belle explains what Gold is about to do, and Emma agrees to forward the information to Snow.

"If this doesn't work," Gold grimaces, "at four o'clock I'll prepare a request for a stay of execution."

Belle is yanking on her shoes. "What grounds will you use?"

Shrugging into his suit jacket, Gold mulls the question over. "That, given their history, Snow should have recused herself. Regina's case wasn't determined by an impartial judge." He grabs his cane with one hand and Belle's hand with the other, and they hurry downstairs.

"Where would you find an impartial judge in Storybrooke? Everybody here has been victimized by her."

Gold holds the front door open for Belle. "Exactly. Snow should have called for a change of venue."

"But that's impossible," Belle sputters as she raises the garage door. "How could she do that when we can't leave Storybrooke?"

"Therein lies the conundrum."

"Yeah. So what's the solution?"

"Exactly." He guns the Caddy's engine.

* * *

><p><em>Do what must be done with a docile heart<em>.

As Belle walks into Emma's office to explain the concept, Blue and Gold approach Cell B, where Regina watches them warily. She's crouched in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, and the closer they get to the bars, the faster she rocks. She's speaking a mix of old-realm languages. Her upper lip glitters with fairy dust. Whale is kneeling beside her, attempting unsuccessfully to take her blood pressure, but he backs away when the magic practitioners approach.

Only Blue can help her: the fairy dust in the air and on the floor cut Gold off from his magic. Blue transports herself into the cell, kneels and with comforting murmurs casts a sedative spell on her. Regina's eyes clear immediately and she stops rocking, but she remains balled up on the floor.

"Regina, can you hear me?" Gold asks. The sorceress doesn't acknowledge him. "It's time to implement our deal. Do you remember what we agreed?"

"We need a single strand of your hair," Blue adds, "for the potion that will fix all this." She conjures a pair of scissors. "I'm going to take that strand now, but I promise I won't hurt you."

"You're the Good Fairy," Regina exclaims. "Why are you good?"

"I won't hurt you." And in a single snip it's done. Blue transports herself to the other side of the bars and releases the hair sample into the vial Gold is carrying. Already inside is a strand of his own hair. As Belle and Emma rush forward, the mages watch the vial begin to glow and the strands of hair rise in the glass, twist together and set off a tiny explosive spark.

"So far, so good," Blue remarks. "Rumplestiltskin, I believe we've just bottled True Hate."

"Guess it's a good thing Regina and I are still bad asses," Gold quips. "If we'd started liking each other, we'd be potionless."

"We need to get to the well," Belle reminds everyone. She turns to Emma. "We'll call as soon as it's over."

"I'll sweep up the dust as soon as you call," the sheriff says. "Maybe then Whale can help her." She lays a hand on Gold's arm. "Whatever happens, thanks for trying."

"Don't," he hisses as he raises his glowing hand above his head and a cloud of magic appears to surround Belle, Blue and himself. Under his breath he adds, before transporting his passengers, "It's my mess to begin with."

* * *

><p>The three of them lean over the edge of the well. Despite its age and its location, deep in the woods, far from the protection of villagers, the well has survived intact. Gold has assumed it's the restorative waters it contains that have kept the well safe.<p>

"I can't see anything." Belle peers into the darkness. "But I can hear water slapping against rock."

"That's the River Fluma, a tributary of Lake Nostros," Blue explains.

"So it leads to the Enchanted Forest?" Belle speculates. "Is this well a portal? Could it take us to the Forest?"

Blue and Gold exchange a glance. "It may be possible," Blue says slowly, "but it would require a catalyst, like a magic bean, and a compass to direct the journey."

"And someone who actually wants to go back there." Gold examines his vial thoughtfully. "Of course, that's about to be a moot point."

"Once you. . .do that," Belle nods at the vial, "will _all _magic vanish from this land?"

Blue shifts from foot to foot, and Gold keeps examining the vial as though he hasn't heard the question. When it's apparent Gold doesn't intend to answer, Blue clears her throat. "Well, ah, there are reports—"

"Rumors," Gold corrects.

"Of, uh, supernatural occurrences. . . speculation that there could be, sort of, pockets of magic scattered throughout this world and people who know how to tap into the power. It's most likely very weak and unstable, if any magic exists at all."

Gold snorts. "These self-styled mages are frauds, liars, and bullied kids who've latched onto them in hope of finding some protection and status in this world."

"Fortunately, for most of them, the practice of magic is little more than a fashion statement." Blue ponders, "Although, now that we'll be free to travel, I suppose we could investigate some of these claims." There's an implied question in her voice.

Gold shakes his head firmly. "You investigate. I'm going to Soho. _Belle and I_ are going to Soho."

Belle links her arm through his. "To visit family."

"Aye." Gold murmurs a spell and summons a white cloud of magic as he passes his free hand over the vial. The vial shimmers and glows a bright red as the entwined strands of hair dance around each other. "Well, here goes." He unstoppers the vial and releases it into the well. They lean over the edge, listening, waiting, holding their collective breath.

After a full three minutes they lean back and resume breathing, but they keep waiting.

After ten minutes Gold groans and Blue sighs. Belle frowns. "Should it take this long? What should be happening?"

Gold mutters in both disappointment and relief, "It was just a theory. Untested. And now we know."

"Maybe not," Blue suggests. "Maybe the potion and the spell are right but the emotion in which it was cast was wrong." Gold's mouth twitches; encouraged by his reaction, Blue explains to Belle, "Magic needs emotion to spark a reaction. Use the wrong combination of the two and you get nothing. It's like trying to start a campfire by throwing a Popsicle on a pile of wood."

"So Rumple was feeling the wrong emotion?"

Blue looks at Gold, but there's sympathy, rather than accusation, in her expression. "You brought the magic; it's here by your command. Suppose you. . . just stop commanding it. Wish it away."

"Wish it away," he mutters, staring into the dark well. "In the old land, I tried that but I couldn't get rid of the magic."

She looks skeptical but doesn't call him out on the fib. "I suppose you would have to be absolutely sure. Any reluctance on your part would bind the magic to you."

"And Regina? She's pulling the magic in. If she counters me–"

"Not as long as she's in jail and powerless. Besides, you're the one who summoned it; you're the magic's master. Not her, not me."

The coward in him grasps at a last straw, a final excuse for failure. "What about you? Losing your powers again–is that fair to you? You were created from magic, after all."

"Rumplestiltskin," she lays her hand on his arm, and her touch is light and pleasant. "You may find this odd, but I enjoyed my life as an ordinary human, apart from the occasional hassles with my landlord. What I liked best about my life here was that I wasn't the judge any more. I answered to a higher power. And because I couldn't just wave my wand and make troubles disappear, I had to listen to people. The curse made me human, and that's what I needed to be, in order to really help people. So, no, I won't miss the magic."

"There's always a chance my theory is wrong," he says, but none of them is persuaded by the suggestion. He gathers up his resolve like a woolen blanket, seeking comfort and confidence. He takes Belle's hand as a reminder of all that he stands to gain if he surrenders his power, and he argues with himself that the price he's paying is very small, after all.

They lean against the cool stone wall of the well again, the three of them. It's nearly noon; they have to act now, before Snow does. Gold fills his mind with faces from his pasts, Rumplestiltskin's and Gold's: people he hurt, intentionally or accidentally. He imagines their spouses, their children, their parents, their friends and neighbors. He fills his heart with regret. It's all he can give them now. And then he lets those memories go; with a small smile, he remembers the counsel of _Kung Fu_'s wise Master Po: _To feel shame for no cause is a waste. To feel shame for cause is also a waste; for you must rather spend time correcting that of which you are ashamed._

He fills his mind with moments of joy: a rare hug from Malcolm, his first kiss with Milah, his first cuddle with the newborn Bae, the first time Belle smiled at him. He fills his heart with love. Yes, this is right. This is what he truly wants. The choice isn't either himself or his loved ones: he can't be himself without his loved ones. The choice is between magic and power or Belle, Bae, Henry and Gold. Now that he can see it as it truly is, it's no choice at all. With a relieved sigh and a grin, he releases it all into the well: the shame, the regret, the anger. For a moment or two, all he can feel and all he can know as he stands with his former enemy on his right and his wife (though she doesn't know it yet) on his left, nearest his heart, is love.

A pulse radiates from the well, out and then in again. That's all, a single pulse. But the air pressure drops and the wind rises and in the trees birds relay messages. Blue catches her breath. "It's gone."

Belle looks at him inquiringly, and Blue says again, "The magic is gone. All of it, the light and the dark."

"Yes." The ever-present tingle of power in his fingertips has dissipated. He feels. . . heavier, more earth-bound, more rooted. His soul draws inside his body instead of floating out there on the waves of magic.

But his ankle doesn't hurt any more, and Belle's hand in his feels firm.

He looks out at the clean, blue sky. He can't speak, just feel–physical sensations, not emotions. Wind rippling his shirt, air filling and emptying and filling his lungs, a trickle of sweat down his back. Belle's pulse under his thumb. The women grant him this time, wait in silence. He will spend many more hours, he promises himself, watching the sky change.

But for now, they have work to do. He raises his hand to conjure the magic to transport them back to the jail, and then he reddens. "Sorry. I should've conjured the car here first. We're going to have to walk back."

Belle reaches into her tote and whips out her cell phone. "This world's magic still works." She dials Emma with the news—and a request for a ride.

* * *

><p>Bustle is all around them as they enter the jail: Leroy, who picked them up in the squad car, hurries to the janitor's closet for a mop and bucket and follows along behind Emma, who's sweeping up the fairy dust in Cell B. Regina's been moved to Cell A, where Whale is taking her temperature and David stands by, arms folded, watching for any threat from the patient, who's regained some of her color and is sitting on the edge of the cot.<p>

Snow and Spencer stand outside the cell, talking to Regina about rescinding the execution order.

Flanked by his comrades in arms, Gold sashays in, his cane tapping but seemingly more as an attention-getting device than a medical aid. He feels small, tired, weak and very vulnerable, but he's been a showman so long he can disguise all that, as his instincts tell him he must, if he's to be taken seriously; he must be perceived as a threat, even if he no longer is. "Your Majesty, a word, please?" He bows to Snow.

Snow's face brightens. "You did it! Blue, Mr. Gold, congratulations—and thank you." She gives Blue a hug and Gold a peck on the cheek, then leads them into Emma's office for a quieter, more private consultation.

"The magic is gone," Gold confirms.

"Regina's recovering. We'll send some of the dwarfs out to test the boundaries, but I'll need to make a public announcement first, and remind everyone that all restrictions remain in place until we've finished our testing."

Blue volunteers, "My sisters and I will help." She turns to Gold. "I'll need some previously magically altered objects for the tests. If I may borrow the keys to your shop?"

He hesitates only a moment before producing the requested keys. "Of course. Good luck, Reverend Mother."

She looks at him closely, her pleased expression adding meaning to her words of gratitude. "Thank you. Good luck to you too, Mr. Gold." From now on, between them they will use only their Storybrooke names, an acknowledgement of their humanity. As she walks away, she's speaking into her phone, calling her sisters.

Belle fishes for her own phone. "I'm going to try to call Jo." Her finger is shaking as she scrolls through her phone book.

"You wanted to speak to me?" Snow prompts Gold. "About Regina?"

Gold tears himself away from Belle's phone call. "I took the liberty of making a deal with Regina. I realize I've overstepped my bounds, but I intend to honor that deal."

"Really." Snow makes her voice chilly. "Tell me about it."

He explains the stipulations on both sides as Snow listens, frowning, her arms folded. "Four weeks a year of supervised visitation," she reiterates. "And in return, Regina never sets foot in Storybooke again."

Gold nods.

"No," Snow decides. "I can't accept those terms. You're a thorough man, Mr. Gold, but you overlooked one small but vital point: even from a distance, she can still exert influence here."

"Her minions." Gold looks embarrassed. "Yes. I did overlook them. Sidney, I believe, is no longer a problem, but a few of her former guardsmen may be."

"They will be warned and watched," Snow decides. "Any contact between Regina and any unauthorized personnel will be swiftly and severely punished."

"And with that codicil, you will honor my deal with Regina?"

"I will, and on the grounds that this will be the last time you speak for me without my authorization."

Gold hangs his head, accepting the admonishment. "Of course, Your Majesty. I apologize for my presumptuousness."

Snow now smiles. "Let's go present our terms to the prisoner. And as Blue said, thank you, Mr. Gold." But she pauses on the threshold. "What if the boundary curse isn't broken? How do we exile her then?"

Belle groans. "It _has_ to work." She seizes Gold's sleeve. "We have to get to New York."

Gold twists his cane around and around in his hand. "Well. . . we'll cross that boundary when we get to it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN. Remember the Dragon from "Selfless, Brave and True"? I keep hoping OUAT will revisit him, or at least explore the idea the writers introduced with him, that there is magic in the Land without Magic. So this chapter is dedicated in advance to anyone who will write a Dragon meets Rumple story (I know the Dragon appears to have died, but. . . .)**


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

"Did you reach Josiah?" Gold is asking as from the entrance a shout of "Mom!" fills the jail. As Henry cyclones in and dashes to Cell B, Belle shakes her head. "I forgot: we took his cell phone and fishing gear and everything back to his house. Do you think he's okay?"

Gold's answering smile is confident. "I think he's more than okay—I think he's human now."

Belle hoots like a cowboy on Saturday night. "How soon can we finish up here and go look for him?"

"I'll stick around here in case they need some help with Regina." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he remembers he has no magic to offer as a either a cure or a pacifier for Regina. Except for his knowledge of her, based on their long-standing acquaintance, he's pretty much useless, just a middle-aged runtling. Cold creeps up from his toes and settles in his belly, but he makes a show of bravery, for Belle's sake. "You go ahead and find him. Call me when you do."

Belle shakes her head and links her arm through his. "He'll come to us. My place is with you."

He kisses the top of her head and they turn their attention to Cell B, where Henry's pleading with his grandfather and his other mother to be permitted into the cell. David's refusal is unequivocal, but Emma, leaning on her broom, studies Regina, who's still pale and struggling to stand. The mayor-queen shoves Whale's supporting hand aside, smooths the wrinkles from her skirt and calls to her son, then, mustering dignity, raises her face to Emma. "Sheriff. . . .please. . . ."

Emma passes her broom to Leroy and unlocks the cell. Henry flies past her and into Regina's arms. David unfolds his arms and moves closer as Whale moves away. Regina assures Henry she feels much better and has missed him dreadfully, and the boy assures her he's okay too, even though he did fail this morning's geometry quiz.

Emma strolls over to Belle and Gold, speaking lowly. "You're sure, absolutely sure—"

"The magic is gone." Gold lifts his left hand and flicks his wrist; nothing happens. He notices that the skin on the back of his hand is baggy and wrinkled—an old man's. "Can't even conjure a rose for my lady any more."

"Guess we'll have to buy our flowers from my father from now on," Belle suggests, with a question under the tossaway remark. He catches her meaning and agrees, "Soon, Belle. As soon as things have quieted down." It's a conversation, one of many, that Gold dreads having, but it's necessary: Gold must mend fences with Moe French soon, because Belle will likely delay the wedding until her father agrees to walk her down the aisle.

"As soon as we get back from New York," Belle decides, and Gold kisses her again: she knows how anxious he is to make that trip.

Archie appears at Belle's side, so quiet that Gold isn't aware of him until he asks her, "How are you doing, Belle?"

"Just fine, Archie."

"Emma asked me to pick Henry up at school. Something happened as I was driving over." He raises an eyebrow at Gold. "Something magical?"

"From now on, Doctor, the only magic you'll see will be on Amateur Night at the high school," Gold says dryly.

"Magic has been eliminated from Storybrooke," Belle explains.

"Perhaps," Archie suggests to Gold, "we should talk about that one day soon."

Gold grunts. "Perhaps we should form a Magic Users Anonymous support group. I'm not the only one who'll be going through withdrawal."

"That may not be as outlandish as you think."

"We'll both come to talk to you," Belle says, "as soon as we get back from New York."

"Bindy!" A booming voice interrupts any reply Archie might give, and suddenly Belle is lifted from the floor, swung around, then set down again and a hearty kiss is planted on her mouth. "Jo!" she shouts, standing on tiptoe to throw her arms around her ex-husband's neck.

Dove looks wonderful. He looks human.

"Josiah!"

Heads turn, mouths fall open: no one has ever heard Gold shout before. The mouths stay open because Gold is doing something else no one has seen him do before: just as soon as Belle has released Dove, Gold has swept in with a hug of his own. One-armed, it is, because Gold still needs his cane, but it's every bit as unabashed as Belle's.

"Oh, Jo! It's so good to have you back!"

"Mr. G!" Dove could have picked Gold up just as easily as he had Belle, but he's still conscious of their employee-employer status, so he settles for thumping Gold's back.

"Welcome back, Mr. Dove. Welcome back."

"Are you okay?" Belle asks at the same time as Gold asks, "Are you all right?"

Dove nods, but rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, but I'm afraid the nuns aren't. I, uh, gave 'em a shock. You might need to have a word with 'em, Doc," he advises Archie.

"What happened?"

Dove chuckles and lowers his eyes to the floor. "Well, uh, I was in the laundry room, y'know, like usual, at Mr. G.'s and Bindy's house, perched on the dryer. Suddenly I felt this tingling all over, and dizziness, and my body felt hot and swollen, and then everything seemed to have shrunk. Well, I looked down at my talons, but they were gone: I was hanging on to the dryer with my toes. It took me a minute to figure things out. When I realized I was a man again, I slid off the dryer and I came to look for you guys—except, I stubbed my toe on the laundry basket, and that made me realize I didn't have any shoes on, and when I looked down I didn't have any clothes either. I always keep a change of clothes in the back of the pawnshop, so I dug through the laundry basket for something I could put on so I didn't have to walk through the streets in my birthday suit, but all I could find that would fit was a barbeque apron. I would've called and asked you to bring me some clothes, but I didn't have a phone. The shop's only six blocks, anyway, so I put on that apron and ran down the alleyway, and when I got to the shop—"

Gold slaps his forehead. "I gave Blue the keys to the shop!"

"Yeah. The back door was open. I figured you were there, Mr. G., so I just went in and got my clothes out of the cupboard and took off that apron to put my pants on—"

"And Blue walked in on you," Belle guesses.

Dove reddens. "It wasn't just Blue. Sister Cecilia and Sister Bernie were there too. Let's just say they saw a side of me not many in Storybrooke have seen, and I guess it wasn't pretty, 'cause Blue dropped the box she was carrying and Cecelia screamed and ran off." Dove squeezes his eyes shut. "And Bernie, she started laughing like it was Comedy Night at the high school."

Belle covers her mouth and Gold bites his lip to keep from laughing, but when Dove busts out in a guffaw, they let themselves go. Gold's sides ache: he realizes it's been a long time since he's allowed himself an unfettered laugh. For a few minutes, he completely forgets he's powerless.

* * *

><p>He's happy, of course. He made the right decision for once. The hug from Henry and the hand-crushing handshake from Josiah tell him so. Leroy's offer to drive him and Belle home tells him so. The steak that Regina wolfs down tells him so.<p>

The light in Belle's eyes tells him so. The special supper she cooks for him tells him so. The way she curls into him as they watch a little television before going to bed tells him so.

But his body feels heavy and looks saggy, and the only weapons he has now to protect his family are his cane and his money.

And he has no way to fix the wrongs he did to Bae, three hundred years ago. Nothing to offer in exchange for forgiveness. From their bedroom window he looks out on the moonlit lawn, so well manicured, now that Henry's taken over the mowing. If he were the kind to make wishes, he'd wish for an afternoon, sitting out there on that lawn, burgers on the grill, and to his right, Bae stretched out lazily in a matching lounge chair. Maybe they'd be solving the problems of the world, or maybe they'd just be listening to a ballgame. Yeah. That would be a perfect afternoon.

Then he snorts: when did the most powerful sorcerer in all the realms become so prosaic?

"Rumple? Are you coming to bed?"

Yeah. He made the right decision. He's done what must be done, so how come his heart isn't docile?

* * *

><p>"I raised him for eleven years. I was his one and only parent from the time he was three weeks old until just a couple of months ago. I have a right to say goodbye to him when you banish me." Regina's regained her physical strength and with it, the strength of her ego. Though she is well aware the magic is gone—she's tested it several times, not accepting the word of the other former magic practitioners—she was born regal and will not allow a few iron bars to prevent her from exercising her leadership.<p>

Sitting on the naugahyde couch and some straight chairs are the rest of Henry's family: Snow, Emma and David. Gold has been included, but not because he's considered family; once again, he's been asked in as a magic consultant, along with Blue. The two of them have just finished reporting that a run of tests at twenty locations along the Storybrooke border have proven that the curse is broken.

Gold, seated at the deputy's desk, is drumming his fingers. In the trunk of his Caddy are four bags packed with clothes for every occasion, from jeans and t-shirts (in case Bae invites his father and stepmother-to-be to a baseball game) to formal wear (in case Bae permits his father to treat him to a celebratory dinner at Le Bernardin). In the glove compartment are maps and guidebooks. In Gold's wallet is a pile of cash and an American Express Centurion card.

Belle's at home, paying ahead on the household bills, cleaning out the fridge, testing the smoke alarms and the security alarm, setting the timer on the irrigation system, updating the Ipod with road songs—getting the house ready for a long-term closure. The day after tomorrow, they'll drive to New York.

Tomorrow at 6 am, Regina will be exiled. She'll be escorted by Snow, David, Emma and Snow's royal guard to an undisclosed location, where a car will be waiting, with a full tank of gas. The guard will accompany her to the county border.

Although it's known where Regina parked her Mercedes, no one is willing to walk across the border to pick it up for her. Regina will be the first person to cross the border. To her face, Leroy's been calling her The Guinea Pig.

So to provide Regina a car with which to leave Maine, Marine's Auto has donated a '91 Yugo with a dented fender.

Tonight, it's an intimate meeting as the family decides whether to grant Henry's request to be present at the expulsion. Archie's been consulted and advises Henry be permitted to attend, as long as he's brought in later that day for a psychiatric appointment. Snow thinks Henry's too young to witness his mother's exile; she fears he will be scarred for life. Emma, having learned a lesson, she says, about withholding information from Henry, wants to grant Henry's request. David is on the fence.

Gold doesn't have a vote. "Under the circumstances," Snow says, "we don't feel it's appropriate." She doesn't explain why.

After they've argued for two hours, with Gold, his teeth gritted, confirming that there would be no health effects to anyone standing near the boundary and that no traces of magic remained anywhere in town for Regina or anyone else to tap into, Snow defers to her daughter's judgment.

* * *

><p>Emma walks her parents out to their car. Gold sets out for home on foot: he's been walking a few miles every day in preparation for his trip, for he's read that New Yorkers do a lot of walking and he wants to keep up with Bae. Three blocks into his journey, he hears boot heels running towards him and his name is called: Gold, not Rumplestiltskin. So it's Emma, then. He waits for her to catch up.<p>

"Gold." In the streetlight she shoves her hands into her jeans pockets. "Look, ah, I'm sorry about that 'under the circumstances' business. She didn't mean it the way it sounded."

He reminds himself he has a choice: he can take offense or he can brush it away. The advice of _Kung Fu_'s Master Khan pops into his head: _Ignore the insulting tongue_. Besides, he's known Snow White a long time: she's not mean-spirited. "She was speaking as a queen, which is what the town needs her to be right now."

"Well, yeah, about that. The circumstances she was thinking of—there's talk about putting you on trial."

His lips curl in a half-snarl, half-smile. "That seems like a logical next step. Your parents and Mr. Spencer will have to act fast, however. Belle and I will be leaving on Friday."

"Not permanently, though."

"We'll play it by ear." He touches her shoulder. "Emma, we're going to New York. There's room in the car for one more—or two." She doesn't immediately refuse, so he continues, "You could make it a weekend getaway. On Sunday I'll drive you back here."

Emma rocks on her heels, thinking.

"Belle and I have a suite at the Mark."

Emma whistles in appreciation.

"I can call tonight and upgrade to a two-bedroom."

"You'd do that for me?"

"It's little enough after what you did for me."

"Let me think about it."

"We leave at 7 am."

Emma starts to walk away, then pauses. "Gold? Your driver's license didn't come from the curse, did it?"

He snickers. "Good night, Emma."

* * *

><p>It's an historic day: Evil will be publicly vanquished this morning, driven out by the conquering heroes. Storybrooke will be made safe for the common man. The way Snow and Charming size him up when he and Belle arrive, Gold surmises that they've made up their minds there will be another Evil Vanquished day soon. Apparently, Emma hasn't told them yet Evil's already packed and ready to drive off to New York, where it will hardly be noticed, where Evil will be just another middle-aged runtling with a cane and an AmEx.<p>

Snow offers a tight-lipped hello to Belle, then another to Gold as if she had to deliberate on whether he should be spoken to. But she's the town leader and to maintain public confidence, she can't appear to be intimidated by anyone.

He wonders if, too, she'll miss him when he's gone. He will miss her. Can't say the same for her husband, though.

They've got more important and immediate matters to deal with this morning, so the Charmings quickly expel him from their thoughts. He fades into the back of the crowd, apart from all but Belle.

There wasn't supposed to be a crowd. This was supposed to be a solemn event involving only the town leadership, but the town's too small for secrets to be kept, much too small for the public to find an expulsion uninteresting, so, except for the school and the hospital, most routine activity has been suspended and the adults have turned out to watch justice being enacted. They've sensitivity enough not to make a circus of it, but flyers posted around town advertise a post-expulsion party at Granny's, free drinks with every purchase over ten dollars.

He recognizes the faces around him, of course; for nearly thirty years, from the window of his shop, he's watched them pass by. Hardly ever did any of them stop in, so while he knows their names, knows their addresses because he rents to them, he doesn't know them, and certainly, they don't know him. They never wanted to, and that's how he's wanted it, always, the entire three hundred years he's been alive. As a bullied child and a bullied adult, as a bullying immortal, he's minimized his contact with other people. The less frequent the contact, the less trouble they can cause him.

No, it's more than that. The less contact, the less hurt they can do to him. The less hurt he can do to them.

Too late, though, for some of them; they're already tangled up with him.

Snow starts an impromptu speech. Gold's too far back in the crowd to hear her, but he can easily predict what she's saying: promises of public safety, assurances of swift justice. Being Snow, there will be words too of forgiveness and reconciliation. A new life for Regina.

Some of the townsfolk are recording the proceedings on their smartphones. He will need to remember to strengthen the communications dome before he leaves, so the outside world won't access Storybrookers' Facebook pages.

To Snow's left stand Emma and Regina, the latter in handcuffs and Chanel. To Snow's right stands Charming, and behind them, the dwarfs. Behind the lot, parked on the street, Regina's Yugo waits. On the front line, Henry, the only child present, is in Ruby's custody. Gold doesn't worry about him; he's got a strong safety net beneath him and soon enough, he'll have his father in his life. Emma will unite father and son, though she'll drag her feet and grumble; she'll do what must be done, docile heart or not. And as for Bae, he'll become a permanent fixture in Henry's life, once becomes aware he has a son—Emma hasn't said so, but Gold knows for a certainty that Bae can't be aware of Henry's existence; otherwise, it would have been Bae, not Regina, raising the baby.

Had that happened, Regina's curse never would have been broken. Gold would still be a cranky old businessman pining after his housekeeper with shouts of "Papa! You coward!" permeating his dreams. As Snow reads out Regina's sentence, Gold ponders how different everyone's lives would be now, if Regina hadn't adopted Henry. As Snow concludes her speech, he concludes that the curse would have been broken anyway, by Regina herself: she'd gotten bored of her Storybrooke early on and would have done something to screw up her own plan. Regina needs conflict to stir her blood even more than she needs magic.

Rumor has it, before she broke back into Storybrooke, she was earning her living as a roller derby queen in Bangor. It's a fine story so Gold hasn't corrected it with the less imaginative truth, but Emma's divulged that Regina was in fact selling used cars in Teaneck.

Emma crosses over the town line with Regina, opens the driver's side door of the Yugo, unlocks Regina's cuffs and stands back as Regina climbs in the vehicle. Gold can't see either woman's face as Regina starts the engine. In a moment, the Yugo, followed by a van full of gun-toting dwarfs, has rumbled off into the horizon.

Like that, it's over. No final words, no last glance has been exchanged between the two people who used to be the most powerful mages in the world, who used to know each other so well. If Cora had been a little less prideful and a little more tender, Regina might have been Rumplestiltskin's daughter.

Oh gods. He might have spent eternity bound to Cora. Chilled, Gold reaches for Belle's hand. "Come on, sweetheart, I need a cappuccino."

* * *

><p><strong>AN. As I've been writing this, I've found myself wondering how different Rumple's life might have been if there had been a higher power he could've turned to for protection and redress of injustice. All of his life, he's had to make decisions alone, take actions alone, no law or community or friends to help him. What if, for instance, he could have gotten leave from his sergeant when the Seer told him about Milah's pregnancy? Or what if Blue had offered to help him reunite with Bae? What if he had been able to go to Emma with the full story of what he believed Moe had done to Belle? Or what if he'd just felt there was a god who cared about him? Even in Storybrooke, there doesn't seem to be a legal system with any teeth to it, or a church that cares about people's needs, or a sense of community, and until he feels he's no longer living in a dog-eat-dog world, he's going to continue to make up his own code of justice–and there will be no hope for his redemption. So I keep writing stories that give him a safety net, because my fondest hope for him is that he finds the security that comes from faith in something bigger and better than himself. ****Off my soap box now.**

**Coming up: roses, rings and reunions.**


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

They drop in at La Tandoor rather than cope with the crowd at Granny's. The restaurant isn't open yet, but Gold need only rap on the door to the apartment above it, where the owner/chef lives: Gold is a silent partner in this business. "Belle and I are in desperate need of a decent cappuccino," he says, politely apologetic.

"Of course. Good morning, Belle. And if it's not too much of an imposition, I'd greatly appreciate your opinion of my new chocolate croissant recipe." Chef Francoise Baguette leads them to the restaurant's back door and takes them into the kitchen. "Your palate never fails me, Mr. Gold."

"Mmm, it smells so wonderful here," Belle comments as Francoise settles them in tall chairs at the worktable.

As she bustles about, preparing the coffee and a "little gnosh" and signing for a delivery of live lobsters, Francoise asks them, "Were you at that horrid display this morning?"

"Regina's exile? Yes."

"Dreadful," Francoise shudders. "The whole thing, dreadful. Surely there's a more civilized way of punishing offenders." She pauses as she's slicing cantaloupe, sets her knife down and drops her voice. "Mr. Gold. . . there's a rumor that the same will be done to you."

Gold raises an eyebrow and exchanges a surprised glance with Belle as Francoise continues, "If it comes to pass—if they put you on trial—I want you to know, I'll testify for you."

"You would–Ms. Baguette, that would be. . . both very generous and very ill advised. I have many enemies, and your business depends upon the goodwill of the community."

Francoise picks up her knife and hacks away at the cantaloupe. "I don't care. I mean, I do; my family depends on the living we make here. But I'd still be flipping burgers if you hadn't fronted me the money for this building. You're a bastard, no question about that, but your dealings with me have been honorable—"

"And as profitable for me as for you," Gold points out.

"Well, I don't suppose anything I'd do would make much difference, but I just wanted you to know, I'll stand for you."

"Thank you, Ms. Baguette." Gold sips his cappuccino to hide his smile. Beneath the table, Belle's knee nudges his and Belle smirks at him.

* * *

><p>While Belle gives the house a thorough dusting in preparation for its closure, Gold runs errands. His first is to the shop, which Dove is preparing for a grand reopening. "Josiah, Belle and I will be leaving for New York tomorrow."<p>

Josiah continues to polish a silver tea set as they talk. "I know. You and her have been talking about it for weeks."

Gold cocks his head. "You understood what we were saying?"

"I was a bird, but I wasn't deaf," Josiah shrugs. "Don't worry, Mr. G., I'll collect the rent and keep the shop going and check your house from time to time."

"Thank you. There's something else. . . ." He fiddles with the strings on a banjo that's waiting to be priced, then sucks in a breath. "I'm going to propose to Belle tonight."

"Oh." Josiah doesn't look up from the teapot.

"Josiah, you're my friend. I don't mean to hurt you—"

"No, it's okay." He sets down his polish rag. "I talked about this with Archie, months ago. I knew it was coming; it's _right_. You and her are right together. I had a great marriage with a great lady, but it's like she. . . like she passed away, you know? Belle—she's not my Bindy. They're different people. They don't even look the same, not to me. I can't explain it. When I look at Belle, I don't see my wife any more. I see yours."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Josiah looks at Gold steadily. "You shouldn't be. Belle deserves to have what Bindy and I had, and I can see she has that with you. So I'm happy for her and you. I'm okay." He stands and offers his hand. "Congratulations, Rumplestiltskin."

* * *

><p>Gold needs to buy flowers and there's only one place to do it.<p>

He could place an order online, but there's something else he needs to do too. Personally, he doesn't care what Moe French thinks of him, but he does care what Moe French thinks of Belle, because no child should have to deal with her father's rejection. Gold stands outside Game of Thorns, his hand on the door handle, planning what he will say: some solemn words of wisdom about what will be lost when a father doesn't respect his child enough to listen to the child. Gold jerks the door open and the shopkeeper's bell jangles angrily.

Moe's at the cash register. Gods. Gold had forgotten how tall the man is, and how heavy. Built like a Packers linebacker, not a florist. Gold summons his magic and experiences a moment of panic when the power doesn't come. Maybe he should leave, come back later with Josiah behind him. Moe's probably got twenty pounds on Jo, but Jo's a good three inches taller.

"You." Moe comes out from behind the counter.

Caught, Gold hefts his cane: if he strikes first and fast. . . .

"What are you doing here, you son of a bitch?"

"Perhaps you'll be so kind as to inform me which of my many offenses has earned me that appellation."

"We were happy. She had a good marriage, a husband who was kind to her, a son-in-law I could be proud of. I was going to have a grand-" Moe's voice starts as a hiss but ends as a gulped sob. "Grandchild. You took that away from all of us."

"That marriage wasn't real. The baby wasn't real." Setting his cane down firmly on the tiles as he walks, so that the tapping speaks of a confidence he doesn't actually have, Gold brings himself with striking distance. The closer he gets to Moe, the taller the man seems to grow. "But what was real, in the Enchanted Forest as well as here, were our feelings for each other. For thirty years I've loved Belle, and she's loved me. However shaky the start of our relationship was, we came to know each other, respect each other, care for each other, and finally, love each other. And it's our intention to continue to take care of each other for the rest of our lives."

"Oh, no—" French's hammy fists ball up, but he doesn't raise them yet. "No! I'm not going to let you say it!"

"Sir Maurice." Gold draws himself up to his full height; he needs every fraction of an inch to hold his own against the man whose meat-cleaver fists hover just an arm's length away from Gold's nose, which is beginning to itch in anticipation of oncoming pain. "Sir. I love your daughter with all my heart and all my soul. Everything I have and everything I am, I would gladly give to her, if she agrees to take it. I will care for her, protect her, listen to her counsel and be guided by her as long as life and the gods allow. I'm not asking your approval. Belle is quite capable of making up her own mind. But because you are her father, I owe you the courtesy of informing you of my intention to propose to her tonight, and—"

"No! I won't hear it! You took her from me then, turned her against me, and you're doing it again."

Gold understands now. It's not Moe's hatred for Rumplestiltskin that led him to hang up on Belle repeatedly, that's kept his door locked to her when she tried to visit after the curse broke. Well, perhaps it's partly that—daring to raise his eyes to this mottled-faced man, Gold sees no indication of a softening of the disgust Moe feels for both the imp and the pawnbroker. But mostly, it's an overwhelming sense of loss: Moe thinks he's already lost a grandchild to death, and now fears he will lose his daughter to a spiteful marriage.

"Sir Maurice, I'm sure you've heard the talk. This town is full of it. It's true I created the curse that brought us here. I did so, believing that Belle was dead—that you'd caused her death. I found out recently that wasn't the case, and I'm sorry that I took the word of someone I knew better than to trust, and I treated you according to a lie. It wasn't me who created the scenario that put Belle in a fake marriage; believe me, I'm the selfish bastard you think I am, and if I'd known Belle was alive, I would have moved heaven and earth to keep her with me. But the curse is broken now; we are—changed. I am changed. I try to remind myself of that, every waking minute. But one thing that hasn't changed: I created the curse so I could find my son, so I could tell him that I love him and I'm sorry. What you're feeling, I get it; the fear that your life has spiraled out of control and your child is lost to you forever. But she's not lost; she lives in a pink house at the edge of town, and she's waiting for you there. She wants you to be part of our wedding. She wants you to be part of our life. And believe me, there's no way I'd prevent a father from reuniting with his child. I don't know when or where we'll marry; I don't know where we'll live, after we find my son; but whenever and wherever it is, you're welcome. That's all I came to say."

Moe gapes at him; Gold has no idea what the man is feeling or thinking. Gold waits a long moment, in case, but Moe's still staring, face still mottled: anger? Shame? Gold turns around to walk out, but in the corner of his eye, he spots a bouquet, and that reminds him of his other mission, so he turns back around. "Mr. French, I need to buy some flowers."

Moe's mouth twists but the shopkeeper in him responds, moving behind the counter. "To—propose with?"

Gold nods. "Red roses."

Moe runs his hands uselessly along the countertop. "She's always been partial to red roses."

"Good thing for us, she doesn't mind the thorns."

Moe blinks rapidly, pretending to study the contents of his display case. "She used to say the rose wouldn't be as exciting without the thorns. I had a fresh delivery this morning. How many do you want?"

"Thirty-one."

"Odd number."

"Yes. Will you sell them to me?"

"No."

Gold's taken aback as Moe leaves the counter, starts to walk into the workroom. Scowling, Gold proceeds to the exit, causes the shopkeeper's bell to jingle as he opens the door to leave, but French calls to him from the back of the shop, "Wait there."

Gold closes the door and waits.

Several minutes later, French returns with a huge bundle of long-stemmed red roses, wrapped in gold paper, tied with a white bow. Their fragrance and their beauty, both strong and fragile at the same time, overshadow everything else in the shop. French starts to hand the bundle to Gold, but it requires two arms to carry, and the cane catches the florist's eye. "You've got your car with you? I'll carry them out."

Unlocking the passenger door, Gold says, "She'll love them."

"Yeah." French lays the roses onto the passenger seat with as much care as he'd take if he were buckling in an infant. "Hey. Do you know if Belle has any lunch plans?"

Gold closes the door gently. "She doesn't."

"Mind if I—"

"I hadn't planned on going home until late this afternoon. I'm sure she'd enjoy having a lunch companion."

Moe nods at the flowers. "Maybe I could get her out of the house for the rest of the day. Give you a chance to sneak those inside."

"Yeah." Gold doesn't dare say anything more. Détente, like the pedal of rose, is a fragile thing; too much hot air will damage it.

* * *

><p>He has a half-dozen more errands to run before he's collected all the items he needs for tonight. He takes them to the shop and hides them away; though he expects Belle will be too occupied this afternoon to visit the shop, he won't take a chance on someone else dropping in and starting a rumor about his suspicious purchases. Dove helps carry the bounty in, then he splits his submarine sandwich in two, sharing half, as Gold puts the kettle on and brings out the box of dominoes.<p>

Dove doesn't ask if he's nervous, nor does he ask how Gold will propose. He takes it for granted, the proposal's just a formality. Instead, he talks about a 1934 Plymouth he's helping Mike Marine restore. Gold just smiles and lays down a tile.

* * *

><p>Emma phones, first to report that the dwarfs encountered no difficulty yesterday with the boundary, and that Regina phoned Henry last night to give him her address in Teaneck. The first visit will take place after school lets out in June.<p>

"Hey, Gold? I got a call about you today. Someone saw you go into Game of Thorns and come out with a boatload of flowers. Anything I should know about?"

"No lawbreaking took place, I assure you, sheriff."

"Always good to hear. I also heard you went into La Tandoor and came out with a bottle of champagne."

"No lawbreaking there, either. I'm an owner."

"Yeah, I know. Not suspecting you of anything—except maybe a romantic evening with a lady friend. From the size of that bouquet, I'd say a really big romantic evening."

"Suspect all you want, Sheriff. I'll confess nothing."

"Until she says yes."

"At which time, you may expect some 'disturbing the peace' complaints from my neighbors as I shout the news from my rooftop."

Emma chuckles. "Good luck, Gold. Hey, if she does say yes, I mean, won't you want a little privacy in New York?"

"One moment, Ms. Swan." She hears his phone being set down, footsteps and the tapping of his cane receding, then several minutes later, returning. "Check your email, Emma."

The phone against her shoulder, Emma flicks her fingers across the keyboard of her desktop. In a minute she's mumbling, "Yeah, got it, opening your message." In another minute she's reading the forwarded message aloud: "'Dear Mr. Gold, Thank you for your reservation of two Superior Courtyard King Rooms for Friday evening through Sunday. We hope you and your guests will enjoy your stay at the Mark.' Yada yada yada. . . ." In another minute she's gasping. "'Black-and-white marble sheathed bathrooms evoke Art Deco glamour. . . furnishings of ebony, sycamore and nickel. . . fine Italian linens and bedding. . . marble bath with deep-soaking tub—' Ohhhh. . Gold, this is too much. . . "

"We also have dinner reservations at Le Bernardin."

"Gold, this is—you know me: jeans and boots. I don't have the right clothes for a place like that."

"'Business professional' is the preferred attire. The skirt and blazer you wore at court are appropriate." He gives her the last little push: "Besides, they serve cinnamon ice cream."

"I'll think about it."

"Of course, if you and Bae would really prefer a more casual place, I hear there are a great many pizza parlors in Soho. Whatever makes the two of you comfortable, that will make Belle and me happy."

"Oh, gee, what if Neal and I don't get along? You're taking an awful lot for granted."

"On faith, Emma. Yes, I'm taking an awful lot on faith, but what else do we have in this world? Seven a.m., Emma. We'll pick you and Henry up." He clicks off before she can argue.

* * *

><p>With the house silent, Gold moves about preparing the dining room: china, crystal, silver, candles. Warming in the oven is trout almandine and rice; chilling in ice, a bottle of Dom Perignon White Gold. Gold's wearing his tux. At seven-fifteen, he sets Rachmaninov's Symphony No. 2 on the stereo, turns off the electric lights and lights the candles. At seven-thirty, he's standing in the foyer, thirty-one long-stemmed red roses in his arms, one for each year he's known her and loved her.<p>

At seven-thirty-five, she opens the front door. _Knock, and it shall be opened to you._

She's dusty and tired, he can see that, and she's in jeans and a Boston U sweat-shirt, and maybe the smart thing would be to let her shower and go to bed. But sometimes the smart thing isn't the right thing. Her expression changes from weariness to surprise to amazement as her eyes run over him, the roses, the dining table, the candles, then back to him.

He bows as he offers her the roses. "If you'll have them?" When she holds out her arms, he lays the flowers in them carefully. He has a whole elegant speech planned that includes kneeling—he's been practicing getting up and down with his cane—but he finds himself blurting, "If you'll have me?"

Her lower lip trembles but she doesn't say anything and he panics. "No? Or is it too soon? Belle, please say something."

She lowers her face into the roses and her shoulders start to shake.

"Belle?"

"Rumple." Her voice is muffled. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

A relieved laugh breaks from his chest. "Yes! Yes, that's what I meant. Did you think it was something else? Yes!" Now he remembers to drop to his knees. "Belle Marie French—Milady Belle—would you do me the vast honor of consenting to become my wife?"

She's laughing too, though her face is wet. "Yes! Yes!"

He takes the roses from her arms and sets them on the dining table. As she waits, puzzled, he digs the jewelry box from his pants pocket, and as her smile expands, he slides the ring onto her finger. They both choose to ignore the grime under her nails.

"It's perfect." And it is: the diamond reflects the candlelight; the ring almost appears to be enchanted. "Rumple, I'm so happy."

"I'll do my best to make sure you stay that way." He clambers to his feet, bends her back in his arms, kissing her for all he's worth.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Belle can hardly speak for laughing as she leans out the bedroom window and cranes her neck so she can shout upward at her fiancé, who's on the roof. Once she has his attention, she points at her cell phone: "Emma's calling."

He bends at the waist to peer over the edge of the roof and she recoils and gasps instinctively."My god, Rumple, don't stand so close to the edge! Have you forgotten you're human? You could break your neck!"

"Sorry, dear one." He eases down from the roof and slides into the window. Truly, he had forgotten he's mortal and magicless now: such stunts as roof climbing have been amusements for him for hundreds of years. She gives his arm an annoyed slap as he takes the phone from her. "Hello?"

"Gold, officially I'm telling you to quit yelling from your rooftop. It's pissing off your neighbors and scaring the hell out of Ms. Ginger. Unofficially, congrats. Obviously she said yes."

"She did. And before you ask if she was bewitched at the time–"

"Yeah, we're living in a magic-free zone. So are your travel plans delayed?"

"On schedule. We'll pick you up at 7 a.m."

"Yeah, about that. I'm not going. Got a lot of paperwork to catch up on. Taking care of Regina set me back. "

He softens his voice and strengthens his accent—Belle calls this his "honey and treacle voice," one he uses seldom, and only with people with whom he has a long-standing acquaintance, because while it's highly effective, it's intimate, inviting people in—and neither Rumplestiltskin nor Gold ever wanted closeness. Well, with a couple of exceptions. "Emma, you know about Bae and me. There's as much a chance he'll slam the door in my face as welcome me, but after three hundred years of searching, I'm damn well going to take that chance. I think you should too."

"I've got a report—" Emma suddenly cuts herself off. "Yeah. I kept going back and forth on it, and the only thing I could decide for sure was that I'm not ready. Maybe if things go okay for you—I mean, New York's not that far. I could go see him any time."

"Sure. I'll give you a call after I talk to him."

"Have a good trip, Gold. And congratulations."

"Good night, Emma."

Belle is smiling knowingly as he hangs up and encircles her with his arms. "We're picking her up at seven, aren't we?"

"She says no." He buries his face in her hair, breathing in the floral scent of her shampoo before nuzzling her ear. His brain grows fuzzy as his body grows heavy. They should be talking about their wedding, their trip, their plans for the future, but the deeper he breathes her in, the thicker his thoughts, clogging his mind and weighing his tongue down.

He blinks in the unnatural electric light of their bedroom. He wants candlelight and a crackling fire in a fireplace, soft shadows on the wall and a bearskin rug on the hard wood floor and Sonata No. 3 in D Minor on the stereo. He summons his magic to provide it all for his beloved, but his fingertips are lifeless. He thrusts his nose into her hair, attempting to lose himself in her, to forget he has nothing to offer her or Bae any more, no way to fix things.

"We're picking her up at seven, aren't we?"

"Mmm hmm."

* * *

><p>Despite the comforting arms of his wife-to-be, and despite the melatonin he took last night, Gold sleeps fitfully, chased by nightmares. When he finally gives up on Morpheus and slips downstairs to his study to hover over the Michelin road planner he's already committed to memory, his emotions are all over the map. He's imagined every possible outcome for the trip he's about to make: three hundred years has afforded him plenty of time for daydreaming. But instead of allowing Belle's cloud-nine imaginings to rule his thoughts, he's haunted by his conversation with Emma: maybe the world-wise young woman is right. Maybe none of them—Emma, Bae, Henry or Gold—is ready for a face-to-face meeting. Maybe he should start more modestly, with a letter or an email. Correspond for a few weeks, then progress to phone calls, maybe a Christmas visit. Why hadn't he thought of this months ago? Now that everything's arranged, now that Belle's got an entire tourist itinerary planned, now that half the town knows where he's going tomorrow and why—well, he could come down with the flu or something. A break-in at the shop. A tax audit—yeah, perfect excuse.<p>

Hands shaking, he tries to refold the map into its original configuration, but he can't get it right. He waves his hand over it distractedly—nothing happens, of course. He glares daggers at the map, then suddenly grabs it, balls it up, twists it and tears it and throws the pieces into the air. He's going to fail. He's going to fail. He's going to fail.

He swings his cane at the law books on his shelves—but stops in mid-swing, wrenching his shoulder. Without magic, he'd just have to clean up anything he knocked over, replace anything he broke. Without magic, he can't block the noise that would wake Belle and upset her. He can't throw tantrums any more without paying a penalty. He has to content himself with destroying the map, but it's not enough. He wants the thrill of glass or porcelain shattering, the satisfying crunch of shards beneath his boots.

He needs to make some noise, at least. He limps out to the garden and attacks the weeds with his cane—but only after assuring himself he has a backup cane in the broom closet. Gods, the inconveniences of humanness.

After he tidies up his mess—can't have the neighbors calling Emma with complaints of vandalism—and retrieves his new cane, he drops onto the couch. He should try to catch a little sleep, but he's still too wound up. He's going to fail. He's going to fail. He's going to fail.

On the coffee table is the remote control. A little TV then: maybe he'll luck into that infomercial about diamonds; it always puts him asleep. He clicks the TV on, lowering the volume. Belle wouldn't be able to hear the TV from the bedroom, but softer sounds will help him relax.

"_Weakness prevails over strength. Gentleness conquers. Become the calm and restful breeze that tames the violent sea." _Ah. Master Khan. Gold has forgotten to take the _Kung Fu_ disc out of the Blu-Ray player. He settles into the couch, his arm his pillow, and relaxes into the story, which unfolds slowly, quietly.

"Rumple?" Belle's voice, at first worried, then bemused as she figures out what he's doing, startles him. He's sitting on the floor, in the lotus position, his back straight, his eyes closed, his forearms resting on his knees, his forefingers and thumbs shaped into circles.

Belle glances from him to the TV screen, where Kwai Chang Caine is seated in the same posture.

Gold reddens and struggles to unfold his legs, but Belle sets a steadying hand on his shoulder, then she lowers herself beside him and folds herself into the lotus position too.

He smiles at her, then closes his eyes once again.

* * *

><p>At a quarter to seven, they step out into the morning. He looks back over his shoulder as Belle looks out into the town, which is beginning to come to life. He's walked across this lawn and up these stairs a thousand times, very seldom noticing or caring about this property the curse assigned him, on the street that the curse named after him. Nothing remarkable about the place, other than the color of the paint. Nothing much has changed here in thirty years. But when he returns—if he returns—will it seem different then?<p>

"_In the cycle of birth and death, nothing changes._"

"Morning."

Belle and Gold twist to face the garage. Leaning against the Caddy is Storybrooke's sheriff and savior, clad in her red jacket. Belle and Gold exchange a smile, but make no comment about the backpack resting at Emma's feet. Gold simply opens the trunk of the car and sets the backpack inside.

"Did you have breakfast yet, Em?" Belle inquires.

The sheriff shows them a Granny's Diner sack she's been holding behind her back. "Bear claws." When her companions' faces fall in disappointment, she adds, "And jelly." Belle brightens. "And frosted. Maple frosting."

Now Gold grins. "Climb in, Emma."

* * *

><p>At eleven they begin to look for a roadside restaurant. Gold flatly refuses to pull in to any facility that tosses food out a window to its customers; the practice reminds him too much of hog slopping, he claims. But an hour later they've sped past nine eateries and their stomachs are making gauche noises, so Emma takes command. "There!" She points to a green sign. "Take the next exit." From the access road, they roll into a large, strange facility filled with large vehicles and large drivers.<p>

"Fourteen gas pumps!" Belle exclaims. "My word!" She reads the neon signs on the building: "'Truck care,' 'Phones,' 'Showers'—showers?! 'Convenience store.' 'Country Kettle: Breakfast served all day.'

"Where you see the most semis parked, that's where the best cooking is," Emma announces as Gold pulls up to a gas pump. Then she glances at Gold and backpedals. "Well, by common folk standards, that is. With your pampered gourmet gut, you may want to stick with salad."

"I'll have you know, Ms. Swan," Gold huffs, "I've dined on Granny's hamburgers without any digestive distress."

"Really. Well, just the same, stay away from the four-alarm chili."

As he pumps gas, Gold looks around him at the other patrons of this facility: families with luggage containers strapped to their roofs and little houses on wheels that are being hauled by pickup trucks; and the semis that Emma mentioned, whose denim-clad drivers walk with the swagger of John Wayne. These, Gold thinks, are the modern cowboy; he wonders what the world looks like from the cab of a sixteen-wheeler. They get back into the car and he swings around to the front of the restaurant.

"Country Kettle. That's a name for a place that would make great hamburgers," Belle prompts.

"As my lady wishes," Gold says grandly—but secretly, his pampered stomach is yearning for a slab of those barbequed ribs shown on the poster in the window. He picks up his cane and offers his left elbow to Belle. As they enter the eatery, the patrons' heads snap up: clearly, it's not every day that an Armani-wearing man carrying a gold-handled walking stick enters this establishment. Eyes widen as the truckers get a good look at the two young women flanking the cane carrier. Snickering, Emma links her arm through Gold's right arm and gives him a peck on the cheek. Joining in the game, Belle does the same.

Jaws drop to the floor. Eyes narrow as they size up the scrawny little old man who appears to be the center of two young lovelies' universe. Gold smirks as he withdraws a chair for Belle, then when she's seated, shows Emma the same courtesy. Deep, manly voices drop even lower as the truckers mutter and ogle the women and glare at Gold. Then one of the older truckers grunts, "It's all about the benjamins."

Gold chuckles behind his menu. When the waitress comes, he orders a sixteen-ounce sirloin, rare.

* * *

><p>For once, the map and the GPS system are in agreement: if they continue another 4.3 miles on their present course, they will end up at Paladin Towers—a rather washed-out and nondescript building occupied primarily by self-proclaimed-but-unlikely-to-be-recognized-as-such artists, actors, musicians and dancers. Apartment 407 is occupied by electrician Neal Cassidy, who works for the City of New York and who earns free rent by moonlighting as a maintenance man for Paladin.<p>

If they make a right turn at the next light, travel 6.2 miles, then make another right for a block, they will arrive at the Mark, one of the finest hotels in the city, which, here, is really saying something.

When they first entered the city, Emma took over the driving. Her years living in Boston have given her nerves of steel for dense city traffic, as long as she's permitted her secret weapon behind the wheel: much to her companions' chagrin, she requires heavy metal while she drives, and for New York, it's Metallica cranked up to 10. The music, along with occasional rude hand gestures and shouts out the window, she claims, makes her aggressive enough to compete for premium road space.

Belle finds the whole thing absurdly amusing: what must they look like to other drivers, she muses, a leather-clad blonde screeching indecipherable lyrics as she navigates a black Cadillac between buses, taxis and delivery vans, while her Armani-attired passenger grips a gold-handled cane with one hand and the doorframe with the other.

Emma stops for a red light. "Okay, time to fish or cut bait."

"Go straight," Belle suggests.

Emma glances to her right. "Gold? Straight or right?"

His lips are pinched in a narrow line. His voice is barely discernable above the music. "You decide, Emma." The light changes and Emma has no choice but to move.

Staring at the street sign, she gnaws at her lip. The car behind her honks. With a sigh of resignation, she makes the right turn. Her passengers offer no comment but lean back in their seats. She turns the CD player off. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Belle assures her. "We've had a long trip. It makes sense to go to the hotel first, wash up a bit, have a bite."

"No," Emma confesses, "that's not it. I just chickened out."

"So did I," Gold admits.

"It's only four o'clock," Belle points out. "He's probably still at work, anyway."

Emma pulls up in front of the hotel, and immediately two employees hop to work, one to unload the luggage, the other to park the car. Belle, falling back on her training as a noblewoman, accepts all this highly efficient service with grace and ease, but Gold is somewhat bewildered (though he'd never admit it) and disconcerted (this he does admit, when he's alone with Belle) by the practice of surrendering possession of one's vehicle and clothing to strangers. His cursed memories tell him he's probably supposed to tip some or all of these employees; he leans in and in a whisper asks Belle, who's read dozens of travel guides, what's expected. "Not her," Belle whispers back, indicating the valet. "Five bucks to him." She means the bellman.

The bellman notices Gold's uncertainty but pretends not to. Gold wonders if the man finds it odd that it's the young woman in Levi's, rather than the Armani-suited gent, who knows how these things are done. But Gold feels much more at ease when he approaches the check-in desk and whips out his Centurion card. He's walking a little taller as he tucks the card back into his wallet and joins the women and the bellman at the elevators. "We'll meet you in the bar in a half-hour," Gold suggests to Emma as they part ways, she to her own room across the hall from theirs.

The sheriff shakes her head. "Make that an hour. I want to try out that marble tub."

In the quiet and the privacy of their sumptuous room, Gold pulls off his tie and his jacket and flops on the bed while Belle runs about, inspecting and expressing delight in everything. Gold chuckles at her. "You grew up in finery. Surely something as mundane as a room at an inn can't impress you."

"Oh, but you forget, we lost it all when the ogres came. I was only ten years old then, so most of my memories of Avonlea are of empty larders, castles turned into hospital wards and ball gowns torn into bandages."

He watches her through the open bathroom door as she fills the tub. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I should have come sooner."

"You came when Papa summoned you."

"But I could have come years before that."

Sitting on the edge of the tub, trailing her hand in the water, she considers this. "We didn't expect it. You were the Dark One; altruism wasn't in your nature."

"Slaying ogres was." He covers his eyes with his forearm. "I'm sorry to say the generosity of spirit that makes a hero was never a part of my make-up, even when I was a young man."

"You couldn't afford to be generous."

"I doubt if Bae saw it that way." Gold sighs deeply. "The one time in his life that I spanked him was when he gave his supper to a stray mongrel. He went to bed that night crying, but not because of the hunger. Because of me."

"All parents make mistakes," Belle says, turning off the running water. She walks back into the bedroom. "All parents, all husbands and wives, all lovers, all children. It's because we make mistakes that we need each other." She kneels beside him, tugging his arm away from his eyes. "You were a good father, Rumple."

"What makes you think that?"

"We wouldn't be here if you weren't." She pulls at him, urging him to sit up. "He'll remember how you cared for him, even after his mother left. And when he comes to know what you went through to see him again, he'll put aside the bad memories. And when he comes to know that he's a father too, he'll have a greater understanding of what you did. When he picks up his role as Henry's dad, he'll need you all over again to help him figure out how to do it."

As he sits up, she removes his waistcoat. "What are you doing?"

"Taking care of you." She unbuttons his shirt, but it's with a sort of humbleness, rather than sensuality, that she undresses him and leads him into the bath. She kneels beside the tub, lathers a washcloth and washes him, and though he feels vulnerable, he allows it, allows himself to be cared for. He has no childhood memory of his father having ever tended him in this way, not bathing him, not dressing him, not combing his hair, not tucking him in at night.

All those things, Rumplestiltskin did for his son, and in doing so, did them for himself. How sad, he thinks now, that Malcolm never knew how uplifting it is to serve someone. How absolutely sad, to not know the heart-bursting pride of peering down into the sleepy face of a child whose belly is full and whose eyes are full of admiration for his hero, his father. Because Gold remembers those feelings, he allows Belle to serve him now. As her fingers knead the tension from his shoulders, he closes his eyes, leaning against her.


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

"Man," Emma groans as she stretches her arms and wiggles her booted feet luxuriously. "forget your Taj Mahal and your Sphinx. That bathtub is the seventh wonder of the world. I can't wait to try out the bed tonight."

"I'm glad you came with us," Belle says, toying with the tiny plastic sword upon which a green olive has been empaled. She's ordered a martini–her first ever, and from the scrunch of her nose as she sipped it, Gold suspects, her last. But she's eager to sample all sorts of things this weekend, and her innocent enthusiasm provides a lighthearted and much-needed distraction for her companions.

"Best vacation I've ever had," Emma says. "Thanks." She raises her kumquat mojito in a salute to Gold and Belle. She's pretending, of course, to keep her own spirits up; this trip is no vacation.

"I'd like to come back here, when school is out, to sightsee; the three of us," Gold watches Emma closely, "and Henry."

Emma drops the false enthusiasm. "Let's see how tonight goes first."

"Even if it doesn't work out with Bae." Gold sips his brandy. "I'd like to take my grandson to a baseball game."

Emma nods. "I'm sure your grandson would love that."

Gold is moved to speechlessness by her deliberate choice of words. With a single simple sentence, she's just acknowledged his right to spend time with Henry, and she's made it clear that she trusts him to take good care of her son. There is no greater gift she could have given him. He won't let her–or himself–down: he'll be the grandfather a child can be proud of.

He swallows the lump in his throat. Belle's devotion, Emma's trust, Henry's admiration: these are his sources of true strength now. Like magic when it first took him over, this love amazes and overwhelms him, will change him fundamentally, but unlike the changes magic wrought, the way he's being changed now gives him peace: the calm and restful breeze that tames the violent sea. He's ready now to face Bae. "Ladies, shall we go?" He signs the bill for their drinks.

* * *

><p>Given the lack of public parking in the Paladin neighborhood, they decide to take a taxi over. The street's bustling with rush-hour traffic, and when they arrive in front of the twenty-story, gray building, they're jostled and stepped on. Gold sneers and grips his cane threateningly, but no one notices, and he's taken aback. The Dark One is not used to being ignored.<p>

Although the building is controlled access, so many people are going in and coming out that there will be no difficulty getting in. They stare up at the fourth floor and try to guess which window belongs to 407. Every time the front door is yanked open, they examine the exiter/enterer, but find no matches with the face in the photo hanging in the kitchen back home. "It's after six." Belle checks her cell phone. "Maybe he's already home."

"Or working a night shift," Emma says.

"Or stopped for supper," Gold says.

"Or out on a date," Emma finishes glumly.

"There's only one way to find out." Belle waves her hand at the open door.

Emma, Belle and Gold join a cluster of Paladin residents tromping back to their apartments after a long day of jobs they'd rather not have. No one looks at the out-of-towners; no one looks at anyone. Once upon a time, these people did look at each other, tried to learn about the world through connecting with their neighbors, shared their plans and their art with each other, but the need to earn a living has taken the life out of them, Gold thinks. He's seen it before, in every realm, the crush that the needs of the body impose upon the soul. Had he remained a spinner–cuckolded, reviled for his cowardice–it would have happened to him too. Instead, he's still deeply curious about people, but also wary and jaded. Belle, however, is taking some of that weariness away, bit by bit.

The trio follows the crowd into the building and past the security gate. They avoid the crowded elevator and take the dimly lit stairs, and they find their destination–407 looks no different than 408 or 400. Gold sucks in a breath. His hands have gone clammy.

"Well," says Emma.

"Well," he replies.

"Isn't somebody going to knock?" Belle clicks her tongue.

"Ready, Emma?" Gold tries to smile encouragingly as he raises his hand to the door.

"Go for it."

Gold raps with his knuckles.

Nothing happens.

He raps again, then turns his fist around and knocks loudly.

Nothing happens.

"Well, that was a bit of a let-down."

"What do we do now? Leave a note?" Belle wonders.

Gold bites the inside of his cheek. "No. We wait."

Gradually the going-home crowd thins, doors open and close for apartments 408 and 406, but no one approaches 407. When the corridor is empty, Emma, Belle and Gold seat themselves on the top stair. Gold's ankle aches and Belle's stomach growls.

"We need to get you something to eat, sweetheart," Gold says.

"There'll be vendors in that park across the street," Emma suggests. "I'll go with you, Belle. Getting across that street will be hellacious."

Belle clambers to her feet, brushing off her skirt. "Shall I bring you back a cone, darling?"

Gold shakes his head. His stomach's in knots. He watches the women–his security blanket in this imposing village–clatter down the stairs, with Emma delineating all the treats they're likely to find on the food carts. When he can no longer see them, he leans back against the wall and he waits. Each adult male that passes him on the stairs receives a going-over but a quick dismissal, for none of them is Bae-Neal.

Gold breathes in, breathes out, grasping tightly to the frayed rope of self-control, and he waits. He's waited nearly four hundred years; another hour or an evening shouldn't be hard, and it probably wouldn't be if he had some inkling of how he will be received: with a hug or a slamming door. . . and then his blood runs cold as he realizes the worst, the absolute worst and, after centuries, the likeliest reception he'd receive from Neal-Bae: a blank stare. _Have we met before? What did you say your name was, again?_

"Hot dogs!"

"Naw, Belle, these are no ordinary dogs—these are Prince Street dogs." The women's voices increase in volume and excitement as they grow closer. In a moment more, they've reached the landing between the third and fourth floors, and now Gold can see them. He almost chuckles, for dangling off three of the fingers of her right hand, Emma balances catcher's mitt-sized pretzels, while in her left hand is a Styrofoam cup. Belle's carrying a cup and a hot dog.

"Mmph." That's the best Belle can manage around a mouthful of frankfurter. They grin as they catch up to Gold.

"We come bearing gifts," Emma explains, since Belle's still chewing and can't speak. Emma holds out her right hand, the fingers spread. "Take one."

Gold smiles and accepts the offering. "Thank you."

"Oh, there's more." Balancing carefully, Emma drops to one knee on the stairs and turns sideways. "In my pocket." Gold reaches in and extracts a wrapped hot dog. "That's for you too," Emma says, stepping away. She settles herself onto the landing and takes a swig from her cup.

Belle swallows and kneels in Emma's vacated spot. "And in _my_ pocket." Gold reaches into her sweater pocket and finds an Eskimo Pie. Belle accepts a quick kiss as her payment. "We'll have to share the Coke," she says. "Emma and I ran out of pockets."

The pretzels and napkins are distributed and Belle attacks her hot dog in earnest. "Mmph. I got just a swipe of brown mustard and a sprinkle of onions on the dogs. I know you love ketchup, but Emma said we've got to eat like the natives do."

"A New Yorker would _never_ drown his dog, least of all in ketchup." Emma turns up her nose.

"I appreciate your gastronomical guidance, Ms. Swan." The hot dog snaps and squirts juice into his mouth as Gold bites it. Hastily he grabs a napkin and pats up the spatters from his silk tie, then he tucks several napkins into his collar. Thus protected, he is safe to enjoy his meal. "Just think of the offense we might have caused in a ketchup-laden frankfurter faux pas."

"Indeed," Emma agrees solemnly around a mouthful of baked dough.

Gold reaches over with one of his napkins and removes a smear of mustard from Belle's chin. She leans against him, passing her cup to him, as Emma rolls her eyes. "You two are just too precious for words."

"I suppose there is something rather ludicrous about a centuries-old sorcerer—ex-sorcerer—from another world eating weenies with his wife-to-be."

"Not as weird as you might think," Emma shrugs. "You're in New York."

"Wish we could have got some of that pizza." Belle licks her lips. "You should've seen it, Rumple: must have been a dozen food carts in that park, everything from popcorn to shish kabob."

"Having second thoughts about our reservation for Le Bernardin tomorrow night?" Gold winks at her.

"Chef Ripert will have to go some, to compete with this." Belle is starting on her pretzel now. "But of course, nobody can compete with the meal I was served last night." She glances over at Emma. "Champagne, trout almondine, rosemary rolls, baked Alaska, and the most handsome chef on the planet."

"Thank you, sweetheart." Gold kisses the top of her head.

They finish their meal in idle conversation, the three of them watching the third-floor landing and waiting. No one imposes a time limit upon their wait: they're here for the duration. Fewer and fewer residents make their way up the stairs. Behind the fourth-floor doors, televisions and conversations kick on. The Paladin closes in on itself as darkness falls.

Emma says softly, "What if he doesn't recognize me?"

Gold looks at her sharply: it's his fear exactly, though he's got three centuries and two worlds' more distance between himself and Bae; Emma, not even thirty yet, can't begin to imagine.

"It's only been ten years," Belle reminds her. "You probably haven't changed that much."

"Oh yeah, I have. I'm harder now. It's got to show."

"You're strong, not hard. There's a difference, Emma. There's great beauty in strength; he knows that," Gold assures her.

"What about you?" Emma wads up her napkin and stuffs it in her pocket. "Henry showed me an illustration of you in his book. Sparkly skin, snakey eyes, rotten teeth—and look at you now, all _GQ_ and _Dentistry Weekly_. You think he'll recognize you?"

"My Rumple is handsome now, but he was beautiful then," Belle says, ignoring Gold's snort. "Fascinating to look at. What did you look like before then, when you were a young father?"

"Older," Gold admits. "Malnourishment, exposure to harsh weather and infrequent baths will do that to you. I was thirty when Bae was born, but I could've passed for fifty, and I didn't get any prettier until Regina cast the curse. I suppose I should thank her for that: I look younger now than I did three hundred years ago."

"Do you think he'll recognize you?" Emma wonders.

"Of course he will," Belle answers when Gold doesn't. "What child can forget his papa?"

"One who wants to," Gold mumbles.

"He won't want to, when he comes to know the man you've become." Belle rubs Gold's arm soothingly. "We'll make him listen. We'll make him see. And when he does, he'll want to let you into his life again, and we'll make him part of ours."

"Hey," Emma suggests, "you know what I'd like to see? Neal in one of your suits. I never saw him in anything but jeans and sweats. I bet he'd clean up real nice."

"A tuxedo. Mr. Browning has a tux designed for him." Gold pats Belle's hand. "Just in case he agrees to be my best man."

"That would be a thing to behold: Neal in a tux," Emma says dreamily. "So have you thought about your gown, Belle?"

"Not yet. I suppose I'd like something similar to a gold ball gown I once wore." She smiles coyly at Gold. "For sentimental reasons."

"You were royalty, weren't you? Princess Belle?" Emma asks. "I bet you saw some spectacular ceremonies."

"Not a princess. My father was only a knight. Technically, I had no title, but most people called me milady after I came of age. Yes, I did go to a lot of ceremonies—long, boring affairs with people dressed in hot, itchy clothing. Weddings would last five to seven days with neighboring nobility rotating in and out: there would be a feast and gift-giving every day, and on the first day, the groom's family would throw a ball, and on the last day, the bride's would. They'd try to top each other, you see. Not only did that mean the household had to provide food and beds for all those people, but also the women had to have a new gown and jewels every day—and find something to talk about, day after day, to all these overfed, overdressed people. But there would be fresh flowers on every table, and the china and the silver would used at every meal, and minstrels would stroll the grounds. If you were an outsider looking in, I'm sure it was glamorous."

"Would you like a wedding like that, sweetheart? Like you would have had if you'd married Gaston?"

Belle shudders. "Lords! I was almost feeling nostalgic until you brought his name into it. No, I don't want any of that. I'd like something that will feel like Storybrooke. With our friends and family there. My father. You and your parents, Emma. Henry. And Bae."

Gold surprises himself as he imagines the scene, in their backyard. He likes the picture, very much, even with Charming seated in the second row, on the bride's side. He'll have to cast a revival spell over the dead garden–

All right. He'll have to hire landscapers.

* * *

><p>Another hour passes. Behind the doors, televisions are clicking off. On the streets, the rumble of traffic is lightening. Emma is humming "Enter Sandman" under her breath. Belle's eating a fried dill pickle. Gold's whistling a tune that Belle tries to guess. "'William Tell Overture'?"<p>

"'The Theme from the Lone Ranger.' Will you want any supper tonight?" he asks, but she shakes her head. "Just antacid."

"I have some Pepto Bismol in my bathroom."

Gold jerks his head up at the unfamiliar voice. Three hundred years he's waited. Three hundred years he's imagined this moment, the words that he would say to heal the breach between them, the words Bae would say to invite him into his life. A thousand scenarios, but in none of them did he imagine Bae's first words would be the offer of antacid. Gold starts to laugh as he stands, and beside him Belle, clambering to her feet, laughs, and behind him, Emma laughs, and when Bae joins in, for a moment they are a family reunited.

"Emma?" The not-so-young man (Gold recalls how Emma freaked when she learned Bae was more than two hundred years old) swallows hard and blinks, then is knocked backwards as Emma flies into his arms. When he regains his footing and his wits, he holds her at arm's length for a moment to take her in. "My gods. Emma." His voice cracks and he draws her in for another hug that goes on and on.

"Neal." Emma rubs her nose. "You look good. You look good."

"So do you, babe. Damn, but you look good." Neal strokes her back vigorously, as if he's trying to reassure himself she's flesh and bone, not a wisp in a dream. But his attention wanders past her, his face drains of blood, his lips quiver, and Emma sacrifices some of this amazing reunion time for Gold's sake. She steps back, thrusting her hands into her pockets; the jerky movement keeps her from crying. "Neal, someone else came a helluva long way to see you."

Bae—Neal—hesitates; his expression leaps between shock, amazement, disbelief—and is that _joy_ Gold sees? "Dad?"


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Bae reaches out a hand, but instead of shaking it, Gold drags him in for a hug. He forgets to ask if it's okay; he forgets to check Bae's face for permission. He doesn't see a bearded man who, in reality, is two hundred sixty years old: he sees a fourteen-year-old moptop.

The man allows the hug. He even returns it. "Welcome to New York, Papa. What a helluva long ways you must've come."

"Baelfire." Speaking the name is like speaking a blessing that breaks a centuries-old curse. Then Gold remembers his manners and for a brief moment, glances around Bae and mouths "thank you" to Emma, whose Cheshire grin tells him she's forgiven Neal. No accusations, no explanations, no apologies required.

Gold keeps hugging him until Bae draws back–back, but not away. "We should—let's go inside. I'll put the coffeemaker on. Might have a bottle of wine somewhere, if you'd like something stronger." He grins (it's the quintessential Baefire grin). "And that Pepto Bismol."

"Bae–Neal, this is Belle. Lady Belle of Avonlea." He brings her forward. "My fiancee. Belle, this is my son."

She gives Bae a kiss on the cheek. "Hello, Neal. I've waited a long time to meet you."

"You're from–there?" Bae's still reeling, barely able to yank words free of the emotions flooding him.

"Avonlea."

Bae runs his hand through his hair. "Cripes. Let's get inside before I keel over in shock." He fumbles for his keys, drops them, and as Belle bends to retrieve them, he sucks a deep breath between his teeth, his gaze bouncing between Emma and Gold. "My gods. My gods. How the hell. . .come on, let's get inside before the guys in white coats come for me, 'cause this is totally frickin' insane."

Belle tries to give him the keys, but he grabs Emma with one arm and Gold with the other and crushes them into his chest. "My gods! Emma! Dad!"

Bae-Neal's entire one-bedroom apartment would fit into Gold and Belle's master bedroom, but it's not the size that strikes Gold; it's the mishmash of stuff filling the apartment, everything from cracked Depression glass to a rusty Victrola to a shelf of microphones. To a decorator's eye, there's no rhyme or reason, but to a pawnshop owner, it all makes sense: Gold sees himself reflected in his long-lost son's home.

If this is as far as it goes, if Neal denies his name and decries his lineage and evicts him from this place right now, Gold will still walk away with a measure of peace. His son has not forgotten him.

But Neal-Bae doesn't do that. He takes their jackets and hangs them on a hook behind the front door, then he invites them to be seated on the lumpy couch and the matching armchair. On the scarred coffee table between the two pieces of furniture, he sets a tray of cups and spoons and a little box of sugar and creamer packets marked "Aaron's Deli." In his "kitchen"–a sink, a counter and a refrigerator that line the wall opposite the "living room"–he plugs in the coffeemaker. "Sorry," he gestures to the mismatched cups. "I don't have company all that often."

While they wait for the coffee, he wipes his hands nervously on his jeans, takes off his City of New York work jacket and hangs it on the hook. Then he drags a chair from his dining table and places it beside the armchair, where Emma's seated herself. Having nothing else to busy himself for the moment, he sits. "Wow."

"Yeah. Surprise!" Emma announces.

Neal starts with polite chitchat. "Are you living in New Y–" he suddenly interrupts himself, shaking his head in wonder. "How the hell–?"

"It's a long story," Belle says. "I suppose we should ask first if we're interrupting anything."

"Me? No, I was just–the usual, you know. Shower, a little TV, go to bed. Long day at work. We had a compressor go–I'm an electrician, City employee. Been working for the City seven–Now how in the hell did you meet my father, Em? How did you get to Boston from Back There, Dad? And how did you find me?"

"Bail bondsperson." Emma points to herself, as if that should explain everything.

"There was a curse," Belle adds. "Until Emma broke it."

"With True Love's Kiss." Emma gnaws at her lip. "And, uh, something I need to tell you about who I kissed. . . ."

"Perhaps we should leave them alone," Belle suggests to Gold.

"No!" Bae jumps up. "Nobody leave. Look, I can call in sick tomorrow, so unless you have somewhere you need to be tonight, I want to hear this whole story, starting from the portal. Okay, Dad?"

Gold can't help but smile. His son wants him to stick around. "Okay, son." He's being given the opportunity he's longed for more than anything else in life, and now, more than ever, he misses his magic. If he had magic, he could offer Bae happiness, in whatever form Bae might define it: he could erase all the bad memories, he could make Bae a child again, he could–

A memory pops into Gold's mind: Rumplestiltskin offering his son a castle and a crown, and Bae rejecting the offer. Gold ducks his head, his hair curtaining his reddened face. Has he learned nothing all these years? His son is a man of honor, and was even at fourteen, not to be bribed or tricked with trinkets. Nor is the love between them to be sold so cheap.

With a glance at Belle, he assesses the fair price for the forgiveness he needs so badly: he must ask for it.

"Let me get the coffee." Bae roots around in his cupboard. "I think I've got some cookies. We're going to need them. It's gonna be a long night."

"We could order a pizza," Belle suggests. When the others raise eyebrows at her, she shrugs. "What? I'm hungry again, and we're in New York." She pulls out her cell phone. "So, deep dish pepperoni with anchovies and extra cheese? Give me a number, Neal."

Neal smiles at her. "I think you and me will get along fine, Milady. You got your priorities straight." After he relays a phone number and Belle begins to place the order, Bae pours the coffee. "So, let's get this show on the road. I figure whatever you did to get here, it must've taken a boatload of planning, 'cause I know I got the last magic bean. What happened when the portal closed, Papa?" He settles into his chair, ready for a long listen.

Gold eases back into the couch. Bae's granted him two precious gifts: unlimited time and nonjudgmental attention. Gold will reciprocate with a complete and honest story. " At first, I went crazy. . . ."

* * *

><p>Hours later, when he's lying in the Mark's king-sized bed with Belle's leg entwined with his, he reflects on the story he told Bae. He reported the facts plainly, the emotional facts as well as the physical ones. Unlike the story he told Belle and Emma months ago, this story he related in the first person: "I killed,'" not "'he'"; "'I took,'" "'I manipulated,'" "'I destroyed.'"<p>

Feeding on the frankness of his storytelling, Emma told her own story, threading it around his in the appropriate spaces. Then Belle joined in, picking up the strings and pulling at their edges, forming a complex cat's cradle. And at last Bae joined in, and Gold let tears of shame, grief and sympathy come but kept silent to avoid interrupting his son.

But Bae had interrupted himself several times, sometimes apropos of nothing. "I'm sorry, Papa, for all the times I cursed you," "I never stopped waiting for you,'" "'I love you, Dad.'"

When the stories had all been told, when all four of the tellers had uncovered themselves and discovered each other and their connectivity, they fell into a hoarse and exhausted silence. Bae got up to call his boss and Belle made coffee as Emma made a bagel run. They stood on the fire escape to eat their breakfast. "We should go back to the hotel, get some sleep," Emma said. "Don't worry," Bae assured them. "I'll be here when you come back."

They walked out into the corridor. Televisions and conversations behind the apartment doors and traffic in the streets reminded them they were just four out of eight million. Gold swung around on the top step. "Bae, I need to know–"

"Yeah, Papa, I do. I forgive you." Bae took Emma's hand. "Em? Do you–?"

Emma squeezed back. "Yeah, Neal. I forgive you."

"It's a hell of a lot to take in," Bae admitted. "I went to work thinking I was alone. Now I have a son, a father, a stepmother–"

"And an Emma," the sheriff laughed.

Now, behind the heavy drapes of the silent hotel room, with his beloved wrapped up in sleep and in his arms, Gold lets go. Sends the Dark One to oblivion. This evening, tomorrow, this summer, this year, this life, that's what he'll hang onto. He has people to give to, including himself, and screw the magic; he has a lot to give even without it.

* * *

><p>They meet up again at one o'clock to "do the tourist thing," Emma says. "And just take it easy." They limit themselves to the Met, since Gold's ankle can't bear too much exercise; there is no hurry, anyway. When this weekend ends, there will be more visits. Bae has already laid out the welcome mat. Knowing that, the pressure is off. During this afternoon, heavy topics are off the table; this afternoon is just for fun, much needed fun to coat the wounds opened and cleansed by last night's confessions.<p>

Bae borrows a suit from his father; it's a bit too short in the cuffs, but he doesn't have one of his own and he doesn't want to miss the opportunity to dine with his family at Le Bernardin. In the hotel room, as the men dress, they broach the subject of the future, treading carefully. "I understand you have a business to run back in Maine, but maybe you could stick around a week or two? I still have to work, but we can get together in the evenings and on the weekends."

"I promised Emma I'd take her back to Storybrooke tomorrow, but Belle and I intend to come back. She's so eager to see the city, and I'm eager to see you as much as possible."

"I might. . . Maybe you can work on Em for me, huh? I'd like to come out to Storybrooke for my vacation, get to know Henry."

"I think it's a fine idea. I doubt if Emma will need much 'working on,' though." Bae is struggling with the borrowed tie, so Gold takes over the task. The physical closeness encourages an emotional one: Bae asks in a quiet voice, "Tell me about my son."

Gold's hands remain steady on the knot he's fashioning, but he breaks eye contact. "He. . .I just wish I'd known who he was when I arranged the adoption. I wouldn't have–Regina. . . she loved him but she loved herself more."

"You didn't know?" Bae blinks. "That's impossible! How did the child of the curse breaker just happen to be adopted by the woman who cast the curse?"

Gold steps back to check his handiwork. "Some days, I'm convinced there are forces at play that are bigger than any of us. No, son, I didn't know. I was under the curse too. If I had known, I think I would have arranged for Snow White to adopt him. But he's a fine boy, imaginative, honest, and like you, determined to do the right thing. He very much still needs a father. The male role models in his life were weak. The curse had made certain of that."

"I don't know if I'd be any better."

"It's you he needs. I dare say, you need him too. Come to Storybrooke and find out." It's time. Gold opens his suitcase and extracts a small package wrapped in white tissue paper. He lays the package in Bae's arms. "For you. Something I managed to hang onto, from Loameth."

"Loameth? It's gotta be more than a hundred years old." Bae peels back the wrapping paper.

"Three hundred, give or take."

Laying back the folds of tissue paper, Bae uncovers a rectangle of brown woven cloth. He hesitates, then lightly rubs a corner between his forefinger and thumb, as his father taught him long ago. "This is quality craftsmanship." He lifts the cloth to the light and examines the weave. "A Guild Master made this." He looks more closely at a corner, where he finds a tiny gold R sewn into the hem. "This is your mark! You made this!"

"I did. Just before I went to war. I spun the thread and wove the fabric, as a kind of good-luck piece. Superstitious, I guess; I thought if I put enough skill and hope into this, I'd come home safe and then your mother and I could get started on a family."

"A baby blanket." Bae runs his fingers over the tight weave. "This is a baby blanket."

Gold picks up the cloth and lays it in Bae's arms. "And now it comes back to its original owner."

"Mine. You kept this for three hundred years."

"Aye."

"Good gods, Dad. Three hundred years. You never forgot about me."

"You're my child." Gold says it so simply, as if it's what any parent would have done.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Bae?"

"I realized last night, you went through a hell of a lot to get here. Three hundred years searching for me–" Bae clears his throat. "Three hundred years. I can't get over that. And then to let yourself be put under the curse like everyone else. . . But most of all," Bae's voice hitches and he has to pause. "Most of all, giving up your magic to come here."

"I was wrong, Bae, and I'm so sorry that I clung to the dagger when it was you all along, from the moment I learned you would be born, it was you that gave me my power. You were my strength, Bae, and I'm so sorry I forgot that and chose magic over you." Gold stares at his fingers, which still are still sensitive enough to spin silk, yet have done so much damage when magic flowed through them. These hands are an old man's now, wrinkled, loose-skinned, human, but they can bring about some good yet. They can pat a friend's back in encouragement, tousle a child's hair in affection, caress a woman's cheek in passion. They can do what they're doing right now: reaching out for a son in an embrace that promises to fix things in the one way that Bae will allow–in the one way that will actually work. As Gold's hands clasp around his son's shoulders, his touch promises love that never has and never will never wane.

As he holds his son close, Gold experiences a tingling in the back of his brain, as in the old days when he had the Sight, and an image, crystal clear but too brief and devoid of context, pops into his mind. It's probably not a vision produced by Sight–how could it be? It comes from knowing Bae. In this image he sees Bae reaching for Henry in this exact same embrace and for the exact same purpose: as a promise of unshakable love. The boy and his father are dressed in tuxes.

A knock on the door interrupts the vision. Emma and Belle sweep in, the sheriff in her black Ann Taylor skirt and blazer, Belle in a black floor-length Stella McCartney halter dress. "You guys ready?" Emma asks.

Both men whistle in admiration.

"We're a couple of lucky dogs, eh, Dad?" Bae offers his arm to Emma.

"Who says there's no magic in this world?" Gold offers his arm to Belle. "You ladies are utterly enchanting."

"Thank you, kind sir." Belle curtseys.

"So I was looking over the menu online," Emma reports. "As promised, this place does serve cinnamon ice cream. But get this: they also serve Maine beer and S'mores."

"Hmm," Bae speculates. "Now if we can just convince them to roll in a TV and tune in to the Yankees game–"


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

After dinner, the couples split up. That's how Gold thinks of Emma and Bae now, a couple, though neither of them would admit it if asked: there's been no hand-holding or kissing, but the conversations and the glances between the sheriff and the electrician suggest that physical contact is bound to happen. Neither Emma nor Bae is the touchy-feely type (Gold is so glad Belle is), so when they do finally cuddle, it'll be a significant step in their relationship.

Bae and Emma go dancing at the Village Underground, while Gold and Belle catch a Maya Deren festival at the IFC Center. "Are you sure, Belle?" Gold whispers as they flag down cabs. "Wouldn't you rather go dancing too?" He holds his breath: for her sake, he'll try, but his ankle's aching from walking all around the Met.

"I appreciate the offer," she whispers back, "but I have two left feet, so dancing is a chore for me. And I can't wait to see your reaction to _Meshes_ _of_ _the_ _Afternoon_." He believes her and smiles in relief.

They've returned to the hotel and are tucked in for the night when a light rap at their door drags them out from the Italian bed linens. Gold yanks on his trousers and with a grumble, tromps to the door. "Who is it?"

The voice behind the door whispers, "Emma. Sorry, but I really need to talk to you." When he opens for her, she hurries into the sitting room, her face pale. Bae is right behind her.

"Sorry, Dad, but this can't wait."

Wrapping herself in a hotel robe, Belle emerges from the bedroom. "Is it Henry? Is he hurt?"

"No one's hurt," Emma assures them, then growls, "but I'm thinking about it."

Gold invites them to be seated. No matter how bad the news they may carry, he will never be sorry to see them. Belle perches on the arm of his chair. "What's the matter, Em?" she asks.

Bae sits beside Emma on the settee. He drapes his arm over her shoulders, offering her support. Emma's too agitated to notice consciously, but her body does lose some of its tension. "I had a call from Mary Margaret. A petition is being sent around calling for her to exile you. The argument is that you did worse stuff than Regina, so if she should be kicked out of town, so should you."

Belle gasps, but Gold has to nod. "It's true. I had two hundred years' head start over her."

"Regina's a hundred years old?" Belle queries.

"Don't tell her I told you."

"You're making light of this, Papa. That means you expected something like this and you've got a plan."

"A business partner warned me, so yes, I've thought about it."

"Francoise Baguette," Belle muses. "She said she'd stand up for you."

"I don't want to put her in that position. She needs to make a living in Storybrooke. I'm already making a living there." He smirks. "They may exile me, but they can't get rid of me: I own 73 percent of the buildings and 86 percent of the land within the city limits."

"Still, what about your shop, your house," Emma protests.

"I can rebuild. I'm sure New York can always use another pawn shop." Gold takes up his fiancee's hand. "Or we could really mess with their minds and have the pink house moved to the town line, half in, half out, and mark the half that's in as yours. What do you think, Belle?"

She giggles. "Now that sounds like something my imp would do."

Emma makes fists on her knees. "What about Henry and me?"

Gold falls silent then, a smile forming across his lips as the skin around his eyes softens. Belle's hand on his shoulder tightens. Bae's attention bounces between Emma and Gold and his eyes widen as he takes in the meaning behind their words.

"I thought we had kind of an agreement," Emma presses. "The baseball games? Maybe I misunderstood, huh? You claim to be a man of your word. Well, your word to me was that you wanted to be involved in Henry's life. What Henry needs from you is an example. Yeah, there's my parents, and they're great, but hell, they're Snow White and Prince Charming, for gods' sakes. How's a kid gonna live up to that? Now you–you and Neal and me, we can teach him the hard stuff: how to live in a screwed-up world, how to pick yourself up after you've screwed up.

"Look, Gold, ever since we figured out that you're Henry's grandfather, I've been, well, checking you out, to see if I want him to be around you. I had my doubts at first about whether you'd be a good influence. Hell, at first, I thought if I left him in your care, the first time he pissed you off, you might turn him into a rock or something. But then I saw how you felt about your own kid, and I knew you'd take care good care of mine. And watching you these past months–you're changing. I think it would be good for Henry to get to know you. And, uh, to tell you the truth, there are things I can talk to you about that I can't tell my parents, things that would shock them, disappoint them. Bottom line: I'm counting on you." She glances sideways at Bae, and Gold realizes she's inviting Bae into Henry's life too. Bae comes to the same understanding; his arm tightens around her shoulders.

"You're a family law attorney. Well, Henry's family. Fight for him, Papa," Bae urges. "What will he think if you don't? If you just let him go?"

Gold twinges as that dagger hits home. Still, it won't be his fight alone; Belle has as much to lose as he does, and she's an innocent party. He looks up at her. "Sweetheart, you need to have a say in this. It won't just be Snow and Charming I'll be up against, if I challenge this. It'll be the entire community. If I accept Snow's decision gracefully, the community will have no reason to turn against you. You can come and go as you please. But if I fight back, there will be such rancor, they may drive you out too. Your father, Josiah, your friends, you may be cut off from them. Who knows how long the bitterness may last?"

"Jo will stand with us," Belle declares firmly. "Our real friends will come to see us, if we can't go to them." She bends to kiss his cheek. "You're my home, Rumplestiltskin. If the tables were reversed, you'd forsake all others for me."

"Aye, but you're a good person; you've done nothing to deserve this."

"As far as we're concerned," Belle indicates Emma and Bae, "the slate is wiped clean. You are a good man. I hope someday you'll see that."

Bae's eyes flash. "Fight for your family, Papa. Don't let Henry grow up thinking you decided he wasn't worth the trouble."

"Oh, Bae, I'm sorry. I've hated myself ever since then, knowing I made you feel that way, and that you were alone, afraid, in a strange land. It wasn't power-lust that made me let go of your hand; it was fear and self-loathing. I've come to understand that over the years. In that moment, I wasn't thinking about what might happen to you. I wasn't thinking at all. I was just panicking, and I'm deeply ashamed."

Bae comes to crouch down beside his father's chair. He sets his hand on Gold's knee. "I had a lot of years to think about it, work through my feelings. I hated you for the longest time. But I changed too, Papa. I grew up too, just like you did, and I realized yesterday I had to choose: I could hold onto my anger or I could have my family back, but not both. How could I expect Henry and Emma to forgive me if I won't do the same for you? Like Belle said, the slate's wiped clean. We start over, and we fight to keep this family together. Okay?" He offers a handshake.

"Okay." Gold shakes his son's hand. "Ladies, we'd better get some rest. We'll leave right after breakfast."

* * *

><p>"I'll be there as soon as I can," Bae promises; he has to put in for vacation first, and then he'll join his family in Storybrooke to help in whatever way he can to countermand the exile petition. Emma has even agreed to allow him to meet Henry. Bae leans into the Caddy's open window and, as Belle and Gold look on in amusement (though hardly surprise), he kisses Emma–not on the cheek, either.<p>

Gold's chest swells. This family will stand and fight together; that matters to him far more than whether he wins back his Storybrooke residency or not.

"See you soon, Bae," Belle calls out.

Bae winks at her. "See ya, Mom."

She giggles. "Keep that up and I'll be expecting flowers on Mother's Day."

* * *

><p>As Emma steers the big car through the relatively light Sunday traffic, Belle is already mapping out her research strategy. She doesn't mind at all that her visit to New York has been cut short; there will be plenty of future opportunities, Gold promises, with Paris and Rome and London in the offing too.<p>

They arrive home–Gold catches himself using that term for Storybrooke–around seven Sunday night after dropping Emma off at the sheriff's station. As they reach into the trunk for their luggage, a beefy hand reaches past theirs to grab the heaviest suitcase. They spin around.

"Jo!" Belle squeals, flying into her ex-husband's arms.

"Welcome back, Bin." The big man reaches around Belle to shake Gold's hand. "Mr. G. Hope you guys had a nice trip. Since it looks like you're gonna unpack, I guess you heard about the petition."

"Snow called Emma." Belle releases him to pick up Gold's suit bag. "The bastards," she adds with a teeth-flashing growl. When the men respond with stunned silence, she defends her diction. "Yeah, well, that was mild compared to what I was thinking."

"Francoise called me when she saw the Caddy parked at the sheriff's station." A suitcase in each hand, Josiah leads the way to the porch, where Belle unlocks the front door.

"Francoise, is it?"

Dove glances at Belle. "Yeah, Ms. Baguette. Thought you knew her. "

"I do." Belle twinkles. "I didn't realize you two were on a first-name basis."

Josiah reddens. "Well, you know, I've been collecting rent these past couple of months and–"

Belle gives him a playful shove. "I was just teasing, Jo."

"Ms. Baguette is a fine person. A single mother with a teenager and a father with Alzheimer's that she takes care of," Gold remarks seriously, then he twinkles too. "A good match, especially for a man with a hearty appetite."

"Just you never mind about Ms. B." Dove sets the suitcases at the foot of the stairs. "We got business to discuss. Besides, she's on her way over. Hope you don't mind. I expect you're tired, but this can't wait."

Gold and Belle exchange a glance, surprised at Dove's sudden feistiness. "Comes from rent collecting," Gold whispers in his fiancee's ear. "Makes a person bossy."

A car pulls up in the drive and in a moment, Dove is opening the door and taking from the new arrival a loaf of French bread and a covered kettle. "Clam chowder," Francoise explains. "I thought you might be hungry after the long drive."

"Thank you, smells wonderful. Shall we adjourn to the kitchen?" Belle leads the way. Trailing, Gold finds himself wishing he'd known in the Enchanted Forest days about the power of kitchens as a negotiation tool. Warm and fed, people are so much more relaxed and ready to deal. Instead, Rumplestiltskin had tried to impress them by popping in to their own homes or familiar woods. Ah, the ignorance of youth.

He and Belle pass dishes, bread and tea around as their guests seat themselves side by side (causing Belle to smile). Jo wastes no time. "Soon as we heard about the petition yesterday, Fran and me got together to plan a counterattack. So we want to tell you what we got in mind."

"Assuming, of course, you want to stay." Francoise added. "We think you will, when you hear who's behind the exile petition."

"We've already decided to fight," Belle says. "This is our home. We don't want to leave our friends and family."

"Good," Francoise says. "Because that's how a bunch of us feel. We want you to stay."

"So who is behind the petition?"

"This'll be no surprise, Mr. G.: Regina, working through Glass and Spencer."

"Spencer's got a chip on his shoulder after all those families came to me with their custody cases instead of him. Understandable; he could've made a fortune."

"So could you, Mr. G., if you hadn't gone pro bono."

Gold shrugs. "I owed them. Didn't need the money anyway." He jerks back. "Did those words just come out of my mouth?"

"You've changed," Dove observes. "That's what we're building our case on. You're the kind of guy Storybrooke needs. The things you did wrong, you've shown remorse for, unlike Regina. You're not a villain any more."

"We're not going to argue that you shouldn't be punished," Francoise clarifies. "We're coming out swinging with a counter-petition and a counter-proposal. What we will argue is you should be assigned community service: free legal aid for those below the poverty line and working alongside the nuns and Doc Miner to provide herbal medicine to the sick. Weekly check-ins with the sheriff and Archie. And daily supervision from a person recognized as one of the most moral residents in town: Belle."

"That last condition is hardly punishment," Gold muses. "How long a community service sentence are we offering?"

"In a good-faith offering, we'll leave that decision to Queen Snow." Francoise sips her tea, her throat parched from her long speech.

"So, Mr. G., you up for it?"

Gold turns to Belle. "Sweetheart? If we go this route, it could be a long time before we see Paris."

"I have ten good reasons for choosing to stay: my father, Jo, Fran, Ruby, Bernie, Emma, Henry, Bae, Leroy and you."

"Me? Wherever we go, we're a package deal."

"Of course we are, but I think Storybrooke is a healthier place for you than New York. Here, you can be Rumplestiltskin. You won't have to hide your past; you can confront it."

"Josiah and I made a few calls last night to test the waters. We now have eleven names on the counter-petition; three of those people asked to help gather signatures. _Asked_, Mr. Gold," Francoise emphasizes. "Without being prompted."

"There's nothing to lose by trying," Josiah points out. "If our campaign fails, you'll be exiled. If you don't try, same difference."

"The difference is what a fight may do to anyone who takes my side. Belle could be shut out of the community. You could lose your business, Ms. Baguette. Emma could lose her bid for re-election. Henry, simply by his relation to me, could be bullied or taunted."

"He'll have Bae to help him through. I could see it in Bae's eyes: he committed to his son just as soon as he learned Henry exists," Belle comments. "As for the rest of us, we're adults; let us decide our own fate."

"I'd be an ingrate, wouldn't I," Gold's mouth quirks up, "if I walked away."

"There you go," Josiah cheers. "Fran and I better get going. Five of us will be here at nine o'clock to map this campaign." He stands, reaching across the table to shake hands with Gold. "Welcome home, folks."

* * *

><p>A pounding at the door hauls Belle and Gold from their sleep at seven o'clock. Belle sits bolt upright and grins. "Emma! Hope she brought bagels."<p>

She's half right: Emma's brought bagels, but she's also brought Henry. "Hiya, Grandpa, Belle!" The mom and son sashay right into the kitchen and dig into the cupboards and fridge to start breakfast.

"Hiya to you too." Gold's voice is thick with sleep.

"Your fridge is empty," Henry complains.

"I got rid of the spoilables," Belle explains. "We thought we'd be gone a couple of weeks."

"Oh well, I'll call the diner. We'll get some chow over here ASAP." Emma fishes into her pocket as she steps out into the dining room to make her call.

"We need fortification," Henry chuckles, "before we hit the bricks."

"The bricks?" Gold echoes.

"Sure. The baseball team's meeting me here at nine."

"Let me guess: you were one of the three who volunteered with Josiah," Gold muses as he plugs in the coffeemaker.

"Guess I'm number four," Henry admits. "I was over at Grace's when Mr. Dove called her dad. I don't think Mr. Dove got a whole sentence out before Mr. Hatter said,'Sign me up.' Then he told us what was going on and me and Grace decided to form a kids' coalition. I'm bringing the baseball team; Grace is bringing the Mathaletes."

"Very cool, Henry," Belle applaudes.

Gold clasps the boy on the shoulder. "Very cool indeed." Then he turns away. "Excuse me a minute." His voice breaks as he hobbles off to the bathroom.

"Did I say something wrong?" Henry frowns. "He looked kinda upset."

"Not upset: moved. You did everything right," Belle assures him. "Exactly right."


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

At eleven o'clock the Practice What You Preach Campaign (so named by Emma) launches as the Friends of Rumplestiltskin (so named by Francoise) hits the bricks. The junior auxilary seeks the signatures of the under-eighteens; Francoise goes after the business owners and clerks; Jefferson pursues the fashion folk: tailors, hairdressers, jewels, dressmakers and the like; Emma visits the seedier side of town; Belle chases down the bookish; Jo drops in on the blue-collar crowd at the cannery, hardware stores, auto repair shops, sporting goods stores and bait shops; Blue and Bernie visit the sick and the unemployed.

_To_ _fight_ _for_ _yourself_ _is_ _right, _said Caine. By his own choice, Gold walks the residential neighborhoods, where, with no onlookers to compel good behavior, folks feel free to express what they really think of him. Doors are slammed in his face, dogs are sicced upon him (Ms. Ginger even orders her "attack cat" to bite him), mop water is tossed on him, brooms are shaken at him, trash cans are turned over his head. He expects this, now that his magic is gone and people believe that exiling him will result in the confiscation of his real estate holdings.

He's attempting to gather signatures, yes, but even more, he's apologizing for any offenses he committed against these people or their families. He doesn't attempt to justify his wicked behavior or ask forgiveness. It took every ounce of courage he could muster to knock on the first door; twenty houses later, a boulder still rolls around in his stomach. With each knock he reminds himself of Master Po's insight: _The_ _coward_ _and_ _the_ _hero_ _march_ _together_ _within_ _every_ _man_, _so_ _to_ _call_ _one_ _man_ _coward_ _and_ _another_ _brave_ _merely_ _serves_ _to_ _indicate_ _the_ _possibilities_ _of_ _their_ _achieving_ _the_ _opposite_.

As he speaks to the few who will listen, he struggles to remember the exact nature of his offenses against each person; his occasional memory lapses shame him because they reveal the extent of his disrespect for others. As recently as a handful of weeks ago, he'd felt no concern for anyone who wasn't Belle or Bae, but serving Storybrooke's cursed families–the confused children, the suffering mothers and fathers–had an effect on him, like a slow, cooling rain drenching the flames that had been consuming his soul ever since his father abandoned him.

_I_ _have_ _seen_ _a_ _tree_ _struck_ _by_ _lightning_. _Inside_, _a_ _small_ _fire_ _grew_ _and_ _devoured_ _the_ _tree, _said Caine. The fire of hatred would always burn in him, he recognized that; he'd practiced villainy too long to be cured of it. But since Emma broke the curse–since he chose to break his own curse–the flames have shiveled. Po said, _But_ _what_ _is_ _evil_, _but_ _the_ _self_ _seeking_ _to_ _fulfill_ _its_ _own_ _secret_ _needs_? _All_ _that_ _is_ _necessary_ _is_ _that_ _we_ _face_ _it_ _and_ _choose_. Every day, for the rest of his now-mortal life, he would have to choose–he, not Belle or Bae choosing for him, telling him what to do. He has to decide what's good and choose it, by himself, for himself.

So he hits the bricks and knocks on doors, and sometimes the doors are slammed in his face and sometimes they're opened to him. He keeps knocking, keeps asking for his apology to be heard and believed, keeps walking despite his fragile ankle and his fragile pride. Po said, _But_ _the_ _threads_ _that_ _make_ _up_ _our_ _human_ _nature_ _are_ _two_-_ended_. _There_ _is_ _no_ _capacity_ _for_ _feeling_ _pride_ _without_ _an_ _equal_ _capacity_ _for_ _feeling_ _shame_. _One_ _cannot_ _feel_ _joy_ _unless_ _one_ _can_ _also_ _feel_ _despair_. _We_ _have_ _no_ _capacity_ _for_ _good_ _without_ _an_ _equal_ _capacity_ _for_ _evil_.

Long after dark, he returns home, pausing periodically to rest against a tree or a wall. In the dining room, the Friends of Rumplestiltskin are celebrating their achievements–thirty percent of the residents canvassed, nineteen percent of them won over–with pizza. Belle is glowing even as she strategizes the next day's campaign; perhaps she should run for city council one day. Gold shakes off his despair and shame to join them and thank them for their friendship.

But after the last slice of pepperoni has been scarfed down and everyone has gone home for a well-earned rest, he takes refuge in the shower, in the release of water and tears.

* * *

><p>There are no fence sitters in this campaign. Some of the residents' stances surprise the Friends of Rumplestiltskin: Belle's friend Leroy sides with the Exilers, and his brothers all fall in line. The barflies and drug dealers and petty thieves take the opportunity to elevate themselves by lowering Gold's status. Most of the Chamber of Commerce vote for exile, perhaps sniffing the king crocodile's blood in the financial waters. But 62% of the under-eighteeners and 100% of the hospital staff and every mechanic, hardware salesperson, banker, tackle shop employee and dog walker in town sign Gold's counter-petition. Every member of every family whose custody case Gold and Belle took on signs for Gold; most help circulate the petition. Ruby votes for Gold; Granny votes for exile. Marco and August, Ariel and Eric take opposite sides too and Emma's sometimes called in to resolve noise complaints as the families shout at each other.<p>

Archie signs the exile petition. He tries to explain; he thinks the only way Gold can truly change is if he faces the consequences of his actions. Gold and Belle are crushed.

Bae shows up driving a U-Haul. He's quit his job; he'll seek another here. He moves into one of Gold's rental properties, rent-free, of course, and lease-free; Gold and Belle suspect it won't be long 'til he moves again, into the house on Begbie Street.

* * *

><p>Another week passes and then, broadcast live on the local news, Spencer presents the exile petition to Queen Snow. He's standing dignified and certain on the steps of City Hall, with a smirking Glass behind him; Snow, flanked by three dwarfs, shifts from foot to foot. Belle feels sorry for her, caught between her husband and Leroy on the Clean Up Storybrooke Society side ("Do they realize what their acronym spells?" Belle remarks) and her daughter and her grandson on the FOR side. Gold just feels sorry.<p>

He admits it to Belle–he's come to realize that not only is openness good for their relationship, it's good for him. "Belle, I'm going out to the convent for a while. I feel like I need to."

"Should I come with you?"

"No, I. . .have some questions for Blue." He twists his cane in his hand, punishing it as he would himself.

Belle kisses his cheek. "I'll keep your supper warm in the oven."

* * *

><p>"Rumplestiltskin!" Blue opens the door herself; her sisters are busy with their chores.<p>

He looks a little embarrassed, a little hopeful. "If I'm not disturbing?"

"Not at all. Come in."

As he enters, she's puzzled: she's usually been the one to come to him, to his lab. "I wonder if we might have a talk."

"Certainly. About what?"

"About fate and free will, forgiveness and change. Memory and suffering and choices. And what your book teaches about them."

"About human nature," she surmises. "Let's go into the kitchen for a cup of tea."

Gold learns that the philosophies introduced in the book Blue follows aren't that much different from those he's picked up from Masters Po and Khan.

* * *

><p>Belle is waiting up for him. It's past two in the morning and she's long since refrigerated his supper, but she puts on a pot of chamomile and lays out a plate of cookies. He relates his conversation with Blue. His voice is hoarse and his eyes red-rimmed: he confesses that a few tears were shed on both sides of the convent's kitchen table.<p>

Belle holds his hand and just listens.

* * *

><p>At noon, in a live broadcast, the FOR, in full strength, presents their petition and proposal to the queen. The television commentator points out that Emma, wearing her badge, patrols the crowd for signs of trouble, but her son stands at Belle's elbow. Gold's son stands beside Gold. The scrawl beneath the televised images declares this "Storybrooke's Civil War."<p>

As Gold is handing over the petition, Archie dashes up the steps, squeezing through the crowd. He's waving a ballpoint pen. "Your Majesty! I've changed my mind. I want to change my vote." Snow allows it, but after the presentation Archie is beseiged by reporters, FOR and CUSS supporters and the simply curious, all demanding an explanation. "I remembered what I once was. I'd be a piss-poor psychiatrist if I couldn't recognize true remorse, and a damned hypocrite if I didn't believe in reformation."

Much later, he calls Gold. "I heard what you did, going house to house to apologize, even to those who signed Spencer's petition. The Dark One never apologized for anything. He didn't give a damn who he hurt or how. That showed me you've had a huge change of heart. So I want to apologize to you for misjudging you."

"Thank you, Dr. Hopper. And I want to apologize too."

Snow announces that she'll tender her decision when she's ready and not a minute before. The glare she casts around before retreating to her office prevents any arguments.

CUSS file over to Granny's for a premature celebration. The newscasters have counted the signaures: of Storybrooke's 3,018 inhabitants, 2,312 have signed the CUSS petition; 646 signed FOR's. Sixty were too young to write their names.

FOR meets at La Tandoor for a meal cooked by Francoise, Ruby and Josiah.

"This isn't a numbers game," Gold assures his supporters, surprising everyone with his optimism.

"That's right," Emma says. "Mom will make up her own mind, based on what she thinks is in the best interest of the town."

"Though Henry's puppy-dog eyes won't hurt any." Jefferson makes them all laugh.

"Don't worry, Grandpa. If we lose, me and Mom and Dad will visit you in New York, or wherever. A lot," Henry promises.

"You won't have far to go," Gold says. "If we lose–and remember, it ain't over 'til it's over–we'll move our house to Highway 22, just beyond the town line. I'm going to obey the law out of respect for Snow, but I'm also going to do everything I can to keep this family together."

* * *

><p>A week passes, then two, and CUSS leadership begins to publicly demand a decision. When still another week passes, Spencer and Glass go on <em>Good<em> _Morning_, _Storybrooke_ to accuse Snow of intentionally dragging her feet in the expectation that people will forget about the petition. "The queen and her consort are practically in-laws with the Dark One," Glass declares. "Think about it, Storybrooke: do you want the Dark One pulling your queen's strings? We didn't have this problem when we had a strong, independent queen leading us. I ask you, whose idea was it to drive Regina Mills out? We should demand an investigation. Who gained when Regina left? What sort of deal did the Charmings work out with their powerful conspirator? What was the Dark One's role in Queen Regina's so-called 'trial'?"

"Think about this," Spencer adds. "When did Neal Cassidy come to town? When did he show the slightest interest in Storybrooke or his girlfriend or his own son? Was it when Emma first came here? Was it any of the times she was in danger? Or when his son was in danger? Or when Storybrooke was threatened? No! It wasn't until we started circulating our petition that he came roaring into town. So I ask you, neighbors, why did he come here? Does he care about his girlfriend or his son? Or is it his father, the Dark One, he's here for? But the very same day he arrived here, he moved in with Snow White's daughter. The very same day!"

"That's a lie," Belle mutters. "Slander! Bae should sue."

"Ther's nothing to sue for, as long as Spencer and Glass continue to couch their accusations in questions. They've made no direct accusations."

"Well, they said Bae and Emma are living together," Belle says weakly.

"That is an untruth–for the moment."

"Is it his son and girlfriend Cassidy moved here for–or is it Snow? How safe are you, Storybrooke, when the Dark One's son is literally in bed with our sheriff, who happens to be the queen's daughter? How moral a decision can a woman make when her daughter and grandson are openly campaigning for a murderer, a thief, a manipulator, a liar? Whose interests are being served? Who's pulling the strings?"

"Bastard," Gold growls. "They can say what they want about me, but leave Emma and Henry and Bae out of it."

Posters demanding a decision go up all around town, even Granny's; other posters feature an illustration of a crazy-eyed, wild-haired Rumplestiltskin dangling Snow by puppet strings. The caption asks "Who's pulling the strings?" In the middle of the night, copies of that poster are plastered onto the windows of the pawnshop and La Tandoor.

"I didn't look like that, did I?" Gold gripes.

"Of course not," Belle assures him. "Now what are we going to do about this crap?"

"Keep our focus. This doesn't matter. Recognize this crap for what it is, an attempt to provoke me so I'll go on a rant. We ignore this, show Snow that I've changed."

But he relents when Henry is jumped by a gang led by the butcher's son. Gold agrees to be interviewed on _GMS_. He's a pro at projecting image and controlling conversation, and Goldie Locksley is easy to manipulate. He does, skillfully focusing on what this new campaign is doing to children and families. When Goldie asks, "But really, didn't you bring this on yourself," he speaks frankly. He relates the story of his past, beginning with his father's criminal behavior, proceeding through his killing of Zoso, and continuing on to the curse. He speaks plainly, without exaggeration or excuse, and when he's finished, he admits his wrongdoings exceed Regina's. He then discusses the changes he's gone through since the curse broke, his sincere regret, his discovery of the power of forgiveness and friendship, his struggle to overcome his dark nature. Looking into the camera, he apologizes, vows to improve, asks for a chance to put all his knowledge and scheming to work to serve the community.

His fifteen-minute interview forces _GMS_ to drop a segment about Ms. Ginger's "A Dog-Free Storybrook" campaign, but it also produces the biggest ratings in _GMS_' history.

And then, wisely, he retreats from the public eye, allowing FOR leadership to speak for him. Pulling back is difficult for him; he wants to lash out at those who bully Henry and Grace, those who boycott La Tandoor and force Fran to close down, those who start a recall against Emma, those in the Utilities Department who tear up Bae's job application. No FOR supporter will go hungry or lose their home, thanks to Jefferson's and Gold's wealth, but they're snubbed on the street, denied service by the CUSS-supporting dentist, victimized by cowardly graffiti sprayers.

And still there is no announcement from the crown. The campaign enters its fourth week.

Belle and Gold are as busy as ever. Voluntarily, in a show of good will, they've begun offering free legal aid for the indigent. In his spare time he and Blue teach the hospital staff about the healing properties of local plants. In the evenings, there are frequent visits from friends; in the mornings, frequent breakfasts with Bae, Emma and Henry.

Sometimes Gold sits back in amazement at how much his life has changed, how much his feelings have changed, now that people are dropping in at the pink house. A year ago, he never would have allowed this, he never would have opened his door or his heart to these people. What the CUSS people think about him–what Snow and Charming think about him–he doesn't care. _Is it not better to see yourself truly than care about how other see you? _

The abandoned child in him feels secure and loved. _Love_ _is_ _the_ _armor_.


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

_Do_ _what_ _must_ _be_ _done_ _with_ _a_ _docile_ _heart_.

As another week, then another, pass, Belle's concerns about the impending exile decision–for Gold, having formulated his back-up plan, believes he can keep his family together whatever Snow's decision, and that's all that matters to him–fade into the backgound. She and Gold ignore the television news, never have bothered with the newspaper, and instead, as Gold remarks, "get back on track," planning their wedding.

Which puts shopkeepers between a rock and a hard place. To be seen catering to the infamous couple would stir up ill will, and these businessfolk need to live here, need to make a living here; but on the other hand, Gold is, well, gold, and the businessfolk need to make a living here. So they sneak into the pink house after dark with their bolts of cloth and their cake samples and their photo albums. They pretend no one can see them go in or come out, and except for a few more vocal CUSSers, the rest of the town goes along with the pretense; after all, it's the color of one's money, not one's soul, that matters, and Gold's money is pure gold.

"This is silly," Belle complains as her former fiance sneaks out of the pink house and into the night. Gaston works for Game of Thorns, a natural fit: he knows roses inside and out. Literally.

Her current fiance thumps his pen against a legal pad.

Belle sets aside the order form she's just signed for six dozen red roses. "Rumple? Are you all right?"

Gold releases his pen. "Sorry, sweetheart. Just a little distracted."

"Talk to me."

His instinct is to brush the request aside: he shouldn't cast clouds over their upcoming bright day. But he's found, lately, the truth in the old saw about burdens shared. "I was thinking, there's one thing I didn't tell Bae yet. The hardest thing. I can't put it off any longer, but I'm afraid I'll lose him, so soon after I got him back."

Belle nods. "You have to tell him. The longer you wait, the more it will seem like manipulation."

"Or cowardice, which it is. I guess one's as bad as the other. But how does a father. . . how do I tell my son I killed his mother?"

Belle mulls the question over. "With honesty and regret. You and he deserve that. And with faith in human nature, that it's possible for love and anger to co-exist."

* * *

><p>Bae isn't smiling as he opens his front door. Something's amiss: instead of inviting him over to the pink house, Gold's come to Bae's, and he's come without Belle. "Hey, Pop."<p>

"Hey. Bae, we need to talk."

Bae stands stock-still. "You heard from Snow?"

"No."

"Come into the man cave." As the men pass through the living room to the second bedroom where Bae keeps his electronic gadgets, sports equipment and ratty-but-comfortable furniture, Gold decides that the house on Begbie is too small: when Bae is ready to move in with Emma, they will need someplace bigger to accommodate packrat Bae. That is, if Bae can stand to continue living in the same town as his parricidal father.

"Have a seat." Bae clicks off the hockey game and crosses to his mini-fridge. Gold settles on the ripped leather couch in the one spot that doesn't sag. He's been here a few times, living out his fantasy of watching baseball games and drinking beer with his son; usually, though, they gather at the more spacious pink house, where Emma and Belle can eat ice cream and watch cult movies in the library while their three guys power up with pizza and sports in the living room.

He does't have to jeopardize the wonderful life he has now. He doesn't have to say anything. After all, the past is the past, can't be fixed, best leave it in the past. What good will it do to risk breaking up this family? Henry–what shame will be brought upon him when he's told? Emma has reassured Gold that she will allow her son to continue to visit his grandpa, who, Emma believes, is one of the rare few criminals to actually reform; she thinks the magic, like a heroin addiction, might have been behind some of Gold's violence. Gold suspects she's letting him off easy, but what matters is that he's living a life now that he can be proud of and the rewards he's reaping are much too precious to lose to backsliding.

Gold is about to lose everyone, except Belle. He made a mistake in deciding to confess. There's too much to lose, too many people to be hurt. He'll claim he came here to talk about. . . to talk about. . . .

"So what's up?" Bae hands him a cold beer.

"It's about–I don't know how to tell you." Gold takes the beer in shaking hands. "Gods." Then what he never expected happens and he can't stop it: Gold breaks down in thick, messy sobs. He sets the beer on the floor to bury his face in his hands. Bae sets aside his beer too and sits down beside him, awkwardly laying an arm across Gold's shoulders, patting him, then gradually overcoming the strangeness of it and drawing his father into his chest.

"Tell me," Bae urges.

Bae's going to be deeply hurt by this revelation. He's been so happy lately; how will this news do him any good? Gold will spare him, won't–"About two years after I lost you." And he's babbling the story despite his better judgment. "I found them. The _Jolly_ _Roger_. They'd pulled into port for repairs after a rough storm."

"Them," Bae says slowly, catching on. "The pirates."

"I had them where I wanted them, cornered, powerless. They had pistols and swords, but against my magic, powerless. I found him first, in a tavern. Jones. I thought it was my lucky day: his first mate had summoned me, promising me a magic bean. I'd get the bean, then I'd get Jones. I'd kill him, I'd torture him slowly right in front of Milah, and if she fainted, I'd revive her before I resumed the killing. She would witness every bit of it, and I would have the pleasure of her suffering and some of my pain would be eased. I'd have justice. My pride would be restored. It was allowed. Not sanctioned, but tolerated in most of the kingdoms: honor killings, cuckolded husbands avenging their honor–a right granted only to husbands, though. Women whose husbands took mistresses had no recourse, nor did abandoned wives or misused mistresses. It was all financial, you see, and men controlled the purse strings.

"I found him in a tavern with his mates. All the better, I thought: I'd kill him in front of them too, emasculate him as he had me. I cornered him in an alley. She wasn't with him. I asked how she was; in spite of everything, I really did want to know. I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear that she was well and happy. If he'd said she was seasick or homesick, would I have felt justified, or would I have taken her home? But Jones said none of those things. He said she was dead.

"I had to pull up short then. It shook me more than I'd known it could. She'd left me. She left you. I was angry as hell, but I loved her. Underneath all that anger, I loved her and I'd believed, deep down, she still loved me and would one day waken up to that fact, leave her glamour boy and come back for her family. How ignorant I was. Why would any woman choose a lame, scrawny, bedraggled nothing over a dashing young adventurer with leather and chest hair?"

"He made her promises," Bae says. "Exotic lands, fine clothes, jewels, rich foods. It was his reputation, he said, that attracted her most. The meanest, strongest men in the village lowered their eyes and stepped aside for Captain Jones. The meanest, strongest men in the world followed him and obeyed his every command. What he couldn't buy, he'd take by force or charm. The night before she left, while you were selling thread in Avonlea, he came to our house to woo her. It didn't take much; she wooed him even more. She sent me to bed in the loft. I was supposed to be asleep but I heard noises; I thought he was hurting her. I looked. I didn't know what was going on. She kept moaning but she kissed him. It didn't make sense. I pulled my blanket over my head and tried to hide."

"I'm sorry you went through that." Gold grips his son's arm. "If I'd had any idea how far she'd gone–of course I realized she was unhappy, and I was angry with her for leaving you alone while she went off drinking, but. . . we'd always been faithful to each other, even when we weren't honest with each other. Until the day she ran off with him, I still believed we could be happy. After Jones told me she was dead, I had all the more reason to kill him. I challenged him to a duel–as if it could possibly be a fair fight. I was going to kill him. He couldn't scratch me; my magic shielded me. But first I had to go away. Think. I was too shaken up over your mother's death. I still loved her.

"The next night, I came back to have my revenge. I'd kill him in front of his men, then while they quaked in fear I'd steal the bean that would open a portal to take me to you. We started fighting. I let Jones get in a few blows, just to get his hopes up before I crushed him. It was nearly finished when your mother suddenly called out my name. Jones had lied; she was alive and I was gobsmacked. She had grown into a gypsy queen, daring in her dress, her eyes darkened with kohl and her lips rouged. I couldn't take my eyes from her, even though she belonged to him as she once had to me. She offered me the bean in exchange for sparing their lives. I agreed. I would have given anything for a chance to find you."

"I know that, now."

"I would have let them go. There would be other chances, later on, I thought. I'd promised not to kill them, but I hadn't promised not to send their ship into a hurricane or cast a pox upon them. To have the bean, I would have kept my promise, though they didn't deserve it. Kept the promise when I couldn't keep my promise to you, who did deserve–" Gold loses control of his grief again. When he recovers, his eyes darken with rage. "It was me and her both I wanted to punish. We both had abandoned you. She said she never loved me; that was the end for me. I almost had the bean, I almost had a way to come to you, but rage and guilt–I thrust my hand into her chest, yanked out her heart and crushed it, for him to see. She died in his arms. Her last words were for him. I cut off his hand as it clutched the bean and I returned to my castle in triumph. I had my revenge and the bean, I thought, except I didn't. He tricked me. And many years later, after I met Belle, I realized I'd tricked myself. Revenge can never be had. And I'd lost you all over again. I killed the woman who had given me my hope, my son. Any chance you may have had to see her again, I took from you. I killed your mother."

Bae releases him and pulls away. "I know." Picking up his beer, he walks away. He fiddles with a sketchbook lying on the pool table as he sips his beer.

Gold gives him time to overcome the shock, but when Bae speaks again, there is no shock to overcome. "About a year after I fell through the portal, I was snatched up and taken to Neverland." Gold had previously shared the story of Malcolm, so Bae now knows the identity of the kid who kept him prisoner in Neverland, though he's never figured out why Malcolm kidnapped him in the first place. "I ended up on the _Jolly Roger_ for a few days. He called himself Captain Hook and he had a tattoo on his arm-'Milah'-and a drawing on his desk." Bae turns around, holding the sketchbook open. "Like this."

It's an image of Milah, smiling saucily, love and lust in her eyes.

Gold forces himself to look, to feel. "I'm sorry. Of all the awful things I–I'm sorry."

Bae turns away, returns the sketchbook to the pool table.

Gold picks up his cane, hauls himself to his feet. Head low, he starts for the door.

"Don't go." Bae's voice is muffled. "Just give me a minute."

Gold waits in the doorway until Bae's shoulders start to shake, and then he forgets that his son may hate him, may order him gone; he comes to him and wraps his arm around Bae's shoulders, as Bae–despite knowing already what his father had done, those three hundred years ago–did for him. Bae doesn't turn around, but he doesn't push away either.

After a long moment, Bae says, "We don't tell Henry. It won't help him to know."

"All right."

"Em and I agree about that. He needs his grandpa."

Gold gulps.

"The man you are now, that's who Henry needs. Em and I need you. I can't forget, but Rumplestiltskin did those things and Rumplestiltskin is gone. I hate him. I can't forgive him. But you're not him." Then his face screws up in pain. "She was your wife! I've had a couple of hundred years to process it and I keep coming back to that. You loved her. You just said so. I remember you pretending you weren't hungry so her and me could have a full meal. I remember you knitting socks for her to sleep in so she wouldn't get cold in the night. This was the woman you made a baby with. How could you. . . push your hand into her chest and drag out her heart and crush it to dust? I love you, Pop, but I hate Rumplestiltskin."

Gold falls silent for a while, then suggests, "I have a friend I talk to sometimes, about right and wrong and anger and forgiveness. Would it help, do you think, if we went there together?"

Bae's eyebrows shoot up. "A counselor? You?"

"Surprised me too, that I could open up to someone besides Belle, but yeah, a confessor and a counselor, I guess you could say. She gets judgmental sometimes, but she's seen the worst men can do, and she says I'm not a lost cause."

"'She'? Not Archie?"

"The Blue Fairy."

"The Blue–? Gods, Dad." Bae needs a long pull on his beer. "Gods. You really have done a one-eighty. This I got to see."

* * *

><p>"Hello, Rumple, Baelfire." Blue closes her Bible as Bernie shows the men into her office. "Excuse me: I should have said 'Neal.'"<p>

"It's all right. I'm getting used to it again."

"Thanks for seeing us. I know it's rather late–"

"I'm glad to be of use. Shall we go into the kitchen?" She rises from her desk. "I've learned that's the best place in the house for conversations. A friend taught me that."

Bae catches the smile that his father and the nun share and he blinks. "So it's true, you really are friends now. I'll be damn–excuse me, Reverend Mother."

"That phrase has a very particular meaning in my profession, Baelfire." She leads them down the hall. "There was a time when I would have agreed with you. I thought you were damned, poor child. Everything against you and it only got worse. The only good I could see in your life was that you and your father did your best for each other." Arriving in the kitchen, she gestures to the table. "Please, be seated. Coffee or tea?"

"A cup of tea would be lovely," Gold answers.

As she puts the kettle on, she continues, "And then the Dark curse came upon him and I thought the only hope for you, Baelfire, was for you to get away from your father. We thought he was a lost soul." She pauses to smile at Bae. "We didn't know then what we learned in this world: that with God, all things are possible. _All_ things, including the restoration of a soul. And I thank God every day that I was allowed to witness the miracle that changed the Dark One back into a man. That experience made me look into myself, and I didn't like what I saw there, and I asked God to do for me what He'd done for the Dark One." She seats herself across from Bae, reaches out to touch his hand. "When I heard you'd come here, I couldn't have been more delighted, because it gives me the chance to say I'm sorry and I hope you will forgive me."

"What do you mean, Reverend Mother?"

"When you summoned me, you asked me to help your father. That's not what I did. My intention was to help myself. I was looking for an easy way to be rid of evil and after millennia of fighting Dark One after Dark One, I thought my chance had come. I could see how much your father loved you; I thought that if I could get you to go to another realm, so would he, and for him to go to a land without magic, where he couldn't hurt anyone again, where there could never be another Dark One created-that was perfect, I thought.

"You see, there's a saying about the Dark curse: 'You feed the madness and it feeds on you.' We believed that the curse chose its victims: men and women whose souls were already dark with anger or greed or lust. We were puzzled at first when Rumplestiltskin became the Dark One. He certainly wasn't the type, but all humans have some degree of evil in them; we assumed the spinner had just never had the power to exert himself. When magic came upon him and for the first time, he had power, he wielded it. And we were deathly afraid, because he was so much more intelligent than his predecessors, always learning, always thinking ten paces ahead. To control him seemed impossible. It never occurred to us that he might be able to control himself, if he could be made to see what he stood to lose.

"So I took advantage of you. Had I done things the right way, the responsible way, I would have gone with you to talk to your father; to give that kind of magic to a fourteen-year-old and expect him to take such a huge decision, that was cowardly of me. The truth was, I really was afraid of him. It was my responsibility, but I palmed it off on you, and I'm sorry."

Bae toys with a salt shaker, buying a few minutes to think. "I accept your apology. As sins go, I'd say that one was a small one."

"But it had huge consequences, not the least of which, it cause a boy to grow up an orphan. I've thought about you every day since then, wondering how your life would have been different if my decision hadn't separated you." She looks to Gold. "I saw the consequences of my decision on your life. What torture you went through because of my cowardice."

"We've worked through that," Gold reminds her. "All the wrongs we did to each other, forgiveness did away with them. The work we've done since then, it's good. It's helped me."

"God can take the most broken, most shattered soul and make it new." The nun grins. "I began to see that on the day you and Belle came to ask me to help you break the boundary curse. And just to let us know it was Him behind it all, God sent us our work in the form of a dove." The kettle whistles and she sprinkles tea leaves into a pot, then adds the boiling water. It was Gold who taught her how to make tea properly; the Sisters had been using bags from a box all these years.

"I'm not sure what I believe about your God," Gold admits. "Dark Ones don't believe in anything but magic, and I was a Dark One a very long time. But since I awoken from the curse, I've begun to have doubts about the Dark Ones' ways of thinking."

"Well, thank God for doubts." Blue distributes cups and saucers and spoons. "Lemon or milk, Neal?"

"Lemon, please."

"But I've been monopolizing the conversation." She fetches the sugar bowl for Gold. "You had something you wanted to talk about?"

Bae squeezes a few drops of lemon into his cup. "Actually, Reverend Mother, we just did."


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

_Love is harmony, even in discord._

Gold is dreaming. He knows it's a dream even as he's moving through it, but it feels real just the same. He's dreaming that _he's standing in knee-deep snow and peering through the front window of the pink house. Outside, where he is, it's dark and wet and growing colder by the minute; inside, firelight and candles illuminate and warm his dining room, where Josiah, Fran, Bae, Belle, Emma and Henry are gathered round a table groaning under a feast. The aromas of fresh-baked bread, honey-glazed ham, sweet potatoes, escalloped potatoes, carrots, peas and cherry pie rise up from the table, curl and carry across the foyer to leak out from the edges of the door. He hears Henry's voice relating a joke, then the adults' voices rewarding him with laughter._

_"Wonder what's keeping Pop?" Bae muses, and Emma gives her husband's shoulder a shove. "I told you none of the stores are open but you just had to have whipped cream for your pie. I should've sent you out."_

_"Now, now, kids, you know he doesn't mind," Belle says. "He probably borrowed from the neighbors."_

_"Can you imagine that?" Bae chuckles. "You open your door on Christmas Eve expecting a little round guy in red, but instead it's the Dark One in Armani and he's asking to borrow a tub of whipped cream."_

_Gold takes this as his cue, swinging the front door open and as he triumphantly raises the tub of Cool Whip for all to see and admire, his family cheers._

It's a small dream, light-years away from those he used to have in the heady early days of his power, but it's what Gold wants these days. Even the Cool Whip.

Which, strangely, is beginning to smell like bacon. His nose twitching, he sits up, his hair falling into his eyes, his eyes bleary, but his nose, forever young, detects bacon frying, coffee perking, cinnamon rolls baking, and he'll bet dollars to donuts there's a platter of bagels and bear claws in the center of the kitchen table. He opens the bedroom door and patters barefoot into the hallway toward the bathroom, and sounds of female and male voices laughing rise from the first floor. They're here, as they often are, Emma and Henry and Bae, though they didn't knock as loudly as usual, apparently, because they only woke Belle. Formerly such a light sleeper, Gold sleeps soundly these days. His legal status hangs in the balance, but in truth, he has nothing to worry about, because everything he wants is already downstairs having breakfast.

* * *

><p>Bae and Fran are unemployed still. Fran at least has an unemployment check and some Social Security for her father, but since he quit his previous job, Bae has only his savings to carry him through.<p>

One evening, Fran and Gold are talking about an idea she has for a home- and office-delivery of customized gourmet meals, using fresh ingredients that fit customers' dietary needs. She mentions the ambitions of other locals who, like herself, have talent but no money to start their own small businesses, and that night the nonprofit Treadle Microloans is born. With Gold's business acumen and Bae's people skills, within the first year, the little charity pays its own way and launches five new small businesses with loans of $10,000 at an interest rate of 2% to cover administrative costs. The first business funded by Treadle is Fran's Fresh and Fast, which delivers gourmet meals to homes and businesses. None of these people will ever get rich, but the loans enable them to start making a comfortable living for themselves.

Sharp and perceptive, Bae has a 90% accuracy rate in his decisions about which businesses to fund. Gold leaves it to Bae to select the nonprofit's board, including Ruby, whose connections in Storybrooke run broad and deep, and Archie, who brings public trust and careful planning to the enterprise. Bae also brings in Jefferson, whose years of studying Storybrooke have given him a marketing savvy and a knack for predicting local trends. Jefferson's too flighty to be involved in the mundane minutiae of running a nonprofit, so he pops in and out as he likes while Bae takes care of the rest.

After an initial training period for Bae in business operations, Gold backs off a bit, taking over the bookkeeping and legal work, so that Treadle can rise or fall under Bae's guidance. Mostly it rises, and with it, Bae's stock in Storybrooke and his pride.

Cassidy and Gold have made dreams come true, the five beneficiaries tell their neighbors. Gold's dream has come true too. As a young father, he dared plan for the day he and Bae would work side by side, producing fine cloth. They are, in a sense, spinners together now, spinning people's dreams into reality.

* * *

><p>Gold is sitting on the edge of the bed, just thinking. He's just returned from court, and after that, a trip to the Dark Star Pharmacy. The package he bought there is tucked away in the nightstand. It's that package he's thinking of.<p>

The laundry basket riding on her hip, Belle enters the bedroom. "Hi, honey. Did you win?" She begins to place the clean laundry in the dresser.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. If you can call it that. She was awarded the child support we asked for, but a divorce never feels like winning."

"Even for one as amicable as Jo's and mine." She lays his freshly folded boxers into his underwear drawer, a task both intimate and impersonal at the same time. He remembers the first time he came upon Belinda Dove folding his underwear, how embarrassing it felt, and yet how rightfully homey, and now it's a weekly occurrence, as common and as private as when she massages his aching ankle or he brushes the tangles from her hair. Service. It's something families give each other, sometimes out of affection, sometimes out of duty, sometimes gladly, sometimes in annoyance at the inconvenience or the repetition. Love is the magnetism that brings a family together but service to one another is the glue that seals the bond. The more work he does with struggling families, the more he realizes that love isn't enough.

"Promise me something, Rumple." Belle bumps his underwear drawer with her hip, closing it, then tackles his sock drawer. "Promise me if we ever get a divorce, it'll be only after we've talked everything out and there's just no other way."

Momentarily alarmed, he can think of nothing else to say but "No. Belle, no, no divorce. We'll always talk, and we'll keep talking until we've worked out whatever's bothering us. I promise."

"I promise too." She sets the basket on a footstool and sits down beside him. "Something's bothering you right now, isn't it?"

"I've just been thinking about something that, amid all the other plans, we haven't talked about. And we should." He opens the drawer to show her what he bought.

"Oh, yes. Yes, we should." She ponders, then takes his hand. "Whatever we decide, it won't change what's between us, will it? I'm yours forever, even if we don't agree about this. So if your answer is no, I'll accept it and I promise you, I'll love you just the same."

A hesitant smile twitches at his mouth. "'If your answer is no'–does that mean your answer is yes?"

Belle nods. "I do. I kept the maternity clothes, the books, _What to Expect When You're_ _Expecting_, the teething ring and rattle and empty journal. I couldn't let them go."

"For the same reason I didn't repaint the yellow room." He's grinning outright now–and blushing. At his age, blushing.

Now she blushes. "I guess there's no need for those, then." She closes the nightstand drawer.

"Well, let's not rush things. I did promise to take you around the world. After that, Mr. Clark will lose one of his best customers."

"We'll make up for it in midnight runs for pickles and ice cream."

He rests his head against hers. "I promise to keep the freezer well stocked."

'So, one year and two months from now, I can take those maternity clothes out of storage?"

"I'm an old man, Belle. I can't promise I'm still capable, but I'll definitely do my best."

"Your best has always been _fantastic_." She gives him a saucy wink. "Just one more question: how many?"

"We mustn't get overly ambitious: In this world's terms, I'll be fifty-four or thereabouts when the first one is born. I'd like to push them in the pram, not the other way round."

"Two then." Belle pats his belly. "And no more Beef Wellington or crème brûlée. We'll clean up those arteries so you can push your great-grandbabies' prams."

"Can I still have pizza with the guys? You know we have to have pizza on game nights. It's a guy thing."

She leans against him, laughing. "On that first day in the Dark Castle, if a Seer had told me the day would come when I'd be talking to the Dark One about making babies and eating pizza, I'd have asked her what she'd been adding into her ale."

"Pizza is a powerful magic, dearie, never doubt it. Especially with anchovies."

* * *

><p>While the bride-to-be and Ruby and Emma go gown shopping, the menfolk enjoy a fishing weekend. "This might be your last trip out here, huh?" Henry asks as Gold brings the Caddy up to the cabin.<p>

"That's all right." Gold pops the trunk open so Josiah and Bae can reach the fishing poles. "It won't be our last fishing trip. There are plenty of rivers and lakes in Maine. But yeah, I'll miss this place. I trust you'll look after it for me, keep it in the family." He gives his grandson a wink. "Check your email, Henry."

The boy scrolls through his phone to find a message to "goldsgrandson at gmail dot com" from "henrysgrandpa." It's their own special communication system for those times when Henry needs to talk about things he can't talk to Mom or Dad about. Let's face it, Charming is cool and fun and all, but grandfathers aren't supposed to be those things; they're supposed to be too old to be in touch with the times, so old that they can remember their own childish mistakes. David thinks and acts more like an uncle, whereas Gold looks the grandpa part, right down to his cane. Sometimes only a grandparent can understand what a kid's thinking and not get bent out of shape about it, hence the secret message system. "This looks all lawyer-y." Henry struggles to figure the document out.

"That's a gift deed, Henry. It transfers the ownership of the cottage and the land you see here to you."

"Man! So I can keep it in the family."

"Right." Gold unlocks the cabin as his guests carry in the fishing gear.

"And the river? Do I own it too?"

"No, that's public property, but a fisherman knows it's his responsibility to take care of the river. No over-fishing, no litter, no cluttering and poisoning the place with resorts and restaurants and so forth."

"So someday I'll pass it on like it is now to my grandkids."

Gold stands on the porch, clutching his keys and staring out at the lake as he thinks about that. Not so long ago, he would have expected to be around when that day came: he could have reasonably expected to see his great-grandkids grow up. Now that he's mortal and walking around in, apparently, the body of a fifty-two-year-old, he must accept the possibility that he won't be on this earth when his and Belle's children graduate college. It's an awful shock and one he'll struggle to accept as reality; after all, he had almost four hundred years to get used to immortality.

Then Bae calls out to Dove, and Gold reminds himself if he hadn't given up the magic that gave him immortality, neither of those two men would be in Gold's life right now—or Belle's or Emma's or Henry's. Any remaining regrets he has about the brevity of his life to come, Gold shakes off; the important thing now is, he has a life worth living.

The men unpack–which for them consists of refrigerating the soda, beer, hamburger and ketchup and dumping the onions, buns and chips on the kitchen table. Their clothes they leave in backpacks; no one here cares if the t-shirts get wrinkled. Gold is wearing his paint-stained jeans and a Partick Thistle FC jersey, its red and yellow stripes so loud as to be jolting to Gold's refined sensibilities, but that's the point. Henry's gotten used to seeing his grandpa "out of uniform" as they've tramped in the woods in search of medicinal plants; the change in clothes is kind of a signal between them that Gold is in "family mode," all matters of business cast aside. The Storybrooke woods are another place Gold will miss, if Snow rules against him.

They sleep out under the stars, lying in sleeping bags and telling stories until Henry falls asleep, and then the men fall quiet to allow the boy his rest. Gold stares across the campfire at Bae, who's lying on his back with his arms folded under his head. Bae's staring at nothing. When he was a child, Bae would daydream like this, then draw what he'd dreamed. Distracted by real life, he seldom daydreams or draws these days, but he's brought his sketchbook this weekend.

Gold wonders what Bae is thinking. So different in temperament and ambitions they are, sometimes each finds the other impossible to read. They are learning that they have to speak up with each other. It helps sometimes to have Belle as a sounding board: she understands both of them better than they understand themselves.

In the crisp morning they take a boat out and chat about sports as they wait for a bite. Nobody cares that the trout aren't interested; none of them will admit it, but they don't want to clean fish anyway. This weekend is about laziness, storytelling–ghosts, not pirates and witches–and making a memory. _"Dad! Do you remember that nine-pounder you hooked that time at the river?" "Yeah, Henry, and you fell in a patch of poison ivy. Good thing Dove brought a first-aid kit." "That was a great weekend, Dad. I haven't been out there in two or three years. We should take Davy out there this weekend." "We should. Too bad your grandpa can't go." "We'll bring him back a trout. That was a great weekend." "A great weekend, Henry."_

It is.

* * *

><p>"Hey, that's cheating." Bae snatches the phone from his father's hands, shuts it off and tosses it onto Sister Bernie's bunk bed.<p>

"The tradition says you can't see the bride before the wedding; it doesn't say anything about texting." But Gold crosses to the narrow, dusty window and peers out onto the convent lawn, which Henry mowed yesterday as his wedding gift. "What do guys normally do at this point, anyway?"

Reflecting on his own experience, Dove suggests, "The father-in-law gives the groom a pep talk. You know: 'If you break my little girl's heart, I'll break your face.'"

"Mo's with Belle," Gold says. "Dodged that bullet."

"Here, let me fix your tie." Bae nudges his father around to adjust the silver tie. "I don't think my dad needs that particular pep talk, Josiah. There's not a soul in town who doesn't know how Pop feels about Belle, and that includes Pongo."

"That reminds me: did your dad tell you about his roof-climbing stunt, the night Belle accepted his proposal?" Dove snickers.

"Now, Mr. Dove, don't make me regret giving you that two-week paid vacation," Gold warns. "On second thought, why should I be embarrassed? It's true, I did it, and I'm proud of the fact that Belle accepted me–and that I didn't break my fool neck."

A rap at the bedroom door prevents Dove from sharing the story. Bernie pokes her head in. "It's time, Mr. Gold. By the way, thanks for letting us host. Ceecee and me have never seen a wedding before, except on TV. The roses from Game of Thorns are spectacular. And wait'll you see all food Ms. Baguette brought!"

"Thank you, Sister, for your hospitality." Gold straightens his shoulders. "Ready, gentlemen?"

As the groom and his attendants start down the stairs to the sanctuary, Bernie signals Ceecee, who signals the high school orchestra, and "Marche Troyenne" begins to play. Blue, in a black habit and white veil, meets them at the foot of the stairs and leads Gold though her office and into the sanctuary, where they wait at the altar.

Jo escorts Ruby down the aisle, with Bae and Emma a beat behind. In her floor-length magenta gown, with her hair up in a Greek braid, Emma looks more classic statue than small-town sheriff. A quick glance at his right informs Gold that Bae's thinking the same thing. For the hundredth time, Gold's almost tempted beyond endurance to goad Bae just a little toward taking this same step himself, but he knows better than to interfere in his son's love life. Besides, the strongest persuasion comes from a good example, like this one, as Belle, in a silver chiffon and satin strapless A line, comes down the aisle on her father's arm.

She's holding her head high and smiling without the least hesitation. Between them, there is no doubt. The orchestra plays their song, Tchaikovsky's "Winter Dreams," as Maurice and Belle of Avonlea/Mo and Belinda French of Storybrooke approach the altar.

Mo isn't scowling, gritting his teeth or even frowning. He doesn't look exactly pleased, either, but at least he's come to terms with this new family arrangement. Gold's been working on him. Bae noticed, while in the shop buying flowers for Emma after an argument, that Mo's a Melbourne Victory man, so Gold's had him over for some of those pizza and football afternoons with the guys. Gold discovered that Mo, like himself, had drawn the short stick when it came to popularity; bearing that in mind has helped Gold to find the patience to tolerate Mo's insults. Gold's come to realize, thanks to Josiah, Henry and Bae, that every guy, even Mo, needs an occasional afternoon with guys. Even the Dark One, who lived fifteen generations alone.

The orchestra ceases to play and Blue calls the wedding guests to prayer. It's a bizarre prayer, Gold supposes: it draws on Catholicism, Anglicanism (Mo and Belinda's cures memories had them as regular church-goers in Australia, though neither of them could remember just when or why they left Melbourne for Maine), polytheism (the predominant belief in the Enchanted Forest)–and Gold's even snuck a few words from his fictional Masters in there (_"The most important gift of our natures is the reaching out to one another_"), as a reminder to himself to protect the man he's evolved into.

After the exchange of vows and rings and kisses, after the blessing of the fairy-nun and congratulations from the family by blood and the family by affection, after toasts and dancing and cakes and wine, Gold and Belle walk out into the twilight. The Caddy has been decorated with tin cans and shaving cream by Grace and Henry, who grin devilishly as they throw rice. As hugs and handshakes are shared, Emma whispers in Gold's ear, "Don't come back into town before your honeymoon's over."

He cocks his head. For privacy's sake–for this is as close as Storybrooke gets to a celebrity wedding–only the wedding party knows that the couple plans to honeymoon for a week in the cabin, after which they plan to return to town and work; their world cruise will wait until Snow has announced her decision and the Golds can arrange their business affairs accordingly.

"Emma?" Gold asks.

"If you need something while you're out there, text me. Otherwise, stay put. Don't come back into town." Her eyes and her mouth have narrowed. "Belle deserves this one worry-free week."

Gold understands now. "I see. Thank you."

Bae has helped Belle into the car; he now stands back, Henry under his arm. "See ya, Pop. Loveya, Mom."

As Gold slides behind the steering wheel, Belle is chuckling. "That kid of ours!"

Gold shifts into drive with a last wave at his son and his grandson and a thoughtful glance at his someday-daughter-in-law. He wonders if she's putting her badge at risk by allowing them to leave. He wonders if she's putting her relationship with her parents at risk. Out of respect for whatever risk she may be taking, he'll heed her advice.

Including the part about giving Belle a worry-free week.


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48

_Caine: "What is my duty to the law?"  
>Khan: "You must assist the law. To serve justice."<em>

Everything they've done this past week, from digging up worms and cleaning fish to washing dishes, they've done together. Belle says she likes this trip even better than the one to New York; she prefers flannel shirts over cocktail dresses, trout she caught herself over $135-an-ounce caviar, and tea being poured by her husband rather than wine poured by a sommelier. If they–she makes certain to use the plural pronoun–are exiled, she suggests they take the cabin with them. Gold promises her one just like it, since this one now belongs to Henry.

They briefly consider starting their family before the world cruise. Belle's practical side wins a delay, however, when she imagines leaning over the railing of a ship, plagued by morning sickness and seasickness together, and tramping the Inca Trail with swollen ankles. A year is not too long to wait and to prepare.

* * *

><p>When they drive into the garage of their pink house, Emma, grim-faced, is waiting on the porch. She can't look them in the eye as she meets them at the garage door. "Sorry, folks. I got to take you in, Gold."<p>

"Take him in?" Belle glances from one to the other. "For what?"

Belle's expression darkens but Gold just nods. "Thank you for giving us the week, Em. I hope you didn't get into too much trouble."

She swallows hard. "No worries. Please. . . " She gestures to her Bug.

As he opens the driver's side door for her, Gold remarks, "Thanks for not bringing the squad car." Once Emma is seated, he crosses to the passenger side and starts to get into the back, but she stops him. "Sit in the front seat. You're not a criminal, damn it."

"I'm coming too." Belle squeezes into the back seat of the Bug. She's crying. "Snow's decided, hasn't she? Not exile: jail."

"Temporarily," Emma assures her. "I'm not supposed to say anything, but I can't bear to see you cry, Belle. Jail is just for a few days. That's all I can say. And you can bring him a change of clothes, a meal, pillows, books, whatever. And visiting hours–they don't apply to newlyweds, okay? You can hang around all–" Emma sniffs.

"We're going to be okay, sweetheart." Gold reaches backward to take Belle's hand. "Don't worry. You either, Emma."

But Belle keeps crying all the way to the sheriff's station, rubbing her running nose on her flannel shirttail. On the lawn are countless numbers of CUSSers. Gold recognizes them all; none of these faces are friendly. Gold waits in the car until Emma comes around to take him out; he's aware there could be trouble enough because she didn't bring him in in the squad car. He stands close to Emma, lending the illusion that he's handcuffed. Emma leads him by the arm as Belle follows, choking back her tears–these people will not catch a Gold crying. "Get the hell out of the way!" Emma bellows, and the CUSSers make an opening for her.

She lets go of Gold long enough to open the door, and that's when someone notices, "Hey! He's not cuffed!"

A murmur rolls through the crowd, building into a unified protest, but it's squashed when a familiar voice rises above the rest: "Aw, shut the f- up!"

Belle finds the voice in the crowd and acknowledges it before following Emma and Gold into the sheriff's office. "Thank you, Granny."

The scene inside is much more sedate, more businesslike: Snow, pale in a black skirt and blazer. Spencer and Glass in suits (off-the-rack, Gold notices: Men's Wearhouse for Spencer, J. C. Penney's for Glass. Okay, so Gold's character improvements have yet to democratize his taste). David, in dark slacks and a button-down, no tie or jacket–but a rifle lying loosely across his arm. Leroy, in coveralls, and the rest of the royal guard, also armed. The queen's secretary taking notes. A two-person camera crew from SBTV, plus a half-dozen reporters competing for the juicy quote, the startling photo. The lot of them fix their gazes on Gold as Emma leads him in; David raises the rifle just an inch so Gold notices it. "That's hardly necessary," Gold snorts. "You think I'm going to try to outrun you?"

"I'm going to protect my wife," David retorts.

Emma swings the door to Cell B open and Belle bursts into fresh tears. Under her breath Emma mutters, "Crap" and motions Gold inside. He enters slowly, sits down on the cot and waits, his cane between his knees. Emma closes the door and locks it, then tosses the key onto the deputy's desk. Her boot heels thumping against the linoleum, she goes into her office and slams the door.

Belle drags a chair from the deputy's desk to the cell, as close as she can get to the cot, but it's not close enough to touch her husband.

"Rumplestiltskin," Snow begins, formally.

Gold grips his cane. Words fly into his mouth, seeking release: hateful words, words that if he still had magic, would steal from Snow: steal her health, her position, her beloved, her life. But he doesn't have magic any more, and he chokes on those words, because he doesn't want to have hate any more either. He reminds himself, so many voices have been shrieking in the queen's ears, unrelenting, uncompromising, unforgiving; he feels sorry for her; she's so young to bear this burden. But more, he feels sorry for himself, because he can see what's coming and he really doesn't deserve it, not any more.

_Po: "Vengeance is a water vessel with a hole. It carries nothing but the promise of emptiness."_  
><em>Caine: "Shall I then repay injury always with kindness?"<em>  
><em>Po: "Repay injury with justice and forgiveness, but kindness always with kindness."<em>

Speaking gently, the queen explains why it's taken so long to reach a decision: she's been observing him this past year, and these past months of waiting for her decision have been a test to see if he would revert to his evil ways. "I've been impressed, Rumplestiltskin, and grateful. You've given freely of your time, your money and your expertise; your acts of charity through the legal aid you've provided free of charge, and through the nonprofit you established, and the training you gave our doctors in the use of plants–you've done much good in this town. I thank you, not only as the queen but as a grandmother. You've been a positive example for Henry. I've seen nothing over the past year to indicate that the change in you is less than permanent, and I'm glad you've been part of my family as well as the community."

Belle and Gold exchange a frown: they've noticed Snow's use of the past tense.

And here it comes. Snow quietly draws in a deep breath. "Since the beginning of government, leaders have debated the purpose of punishment. Is it to reform the convicted? Surely that's why we punish children, to teach them there are consequences to their actions and to correct misconduct. Prison systems have offered all sorts of training programs and counseling to try to teach convicts; sometimes it works, but most often, it fails. Still, it's apparent that if it's reform we're after in the Storybrooke legal system, you've already achieved that and there would be nothing more to gain with further punishment."

From the corner of his eye, Gold catches David raising the rifle another inch. That means the bad news is about to be given. It also means they don't fully trust Gold–though what they imagine he can do behind bars, without magic, eludes him. At worst, he could pound the mattress with his cane. He sighs and Belle, correctly interpreting the cue, buries her face in her hands.

"But punishment serves other purposes equally important to society: it sends a message to those who are contemplating wrongdoing that such acts won't be tolerated, it brings a sense of closure to the victims of crime, and it assures citizens that their lives, their families' lives, their property and their rights are precious and will be protected. Citizens of Storybrooke must see that the law will protect and serve them, because if they don't see that, they'll take action themselves–as you yourself did many times, Rumplestiltskin. Yes, your rights were violated, your property stolen, but instead of trusting the law to bring you justice, you acted like some wild west vigilante and you only made things worse. If we allowed people to take the law into their own hands, we'd have no society.

"But, as I said, I think you're past that. I think you've become a responsible and generous member of our society. Yet, for us as a community to put your past behind us and move on, justice must be served, and for two thousand of our citizens, it hasn't. They've implored me to balance the scales, and these past few months, as they've witnessed your reformation, they've continued to tell me that justice has not been satisfied. The number and severity of the evil acts you committed upon this town are just too imposing to be forgiven. You yourself have said over and over, 'All magic comes with a price.' You haven't paid the price you owe this town."

"Regardless of how I feel about you personally, as the leader of this community, I must listen to the people, I must act to achieve justice, I must ensure our laws are obeyed and our peace of mind protected. Therefore, Rumplestiltskin, as I did Regina, whose crimes were fewer than yours, I sentence you to permanent and complete banishment from Storybrooke. For the remainder of your life, you will not pass within the city boundaries for any reason: not to conduct business, not to visit anyone, not to meet with clients, not even to seek help from the hospital."

Snow pauses to allow the information to sink in. David scans the room, looking for signs of trouble; Glass and Spencer smirk for the live broadcast. Belle reaches her hand through the bars as far as she can, but it's not enough; Gold leaves the cot to lower himself clumsily to the floor beside her and take her hand. David looks doubtful about that, but takes no action; after a moment he relaxes, perhaps realizing how long it will take the lame man to get back onto his feet. In her office, Emma stands with her back turned to the proclamation proceedings. Her phone is pressed against her ear.

"Your property and your financial holdings will not be taken from you, but you will have to manage them remotely, as Regina does. You already have employees that have been taking care of your shop and your investments, so that won't cause your family undue hardship or loss of income. You may take with you anything you own that can be moved without causing disruption or damage to property that doesn't belong to you. That includes your house.

"Your banishment is effective immediately. You will remain in jail for three days, granting you time to get your affairs in order and to say goodbye to your acquaintances here: they will be allowed to visit at any time, beginning tonight. We're keeping you behind bars because of your history of violent reactions. You've proven in the past that your hands and your cane are weapon enough to do a great deal of harm and for that reason, no one except Belle and Baelfire will be allowed to enter the cell.

"You will be given a copy of this sentence and a chance to ask questions about it. Any infractions, even apparent accidental ones, will result in your immediate and permanent imprisonment. None of this sentence applies to any of your family; they were not accessories to your crimes, and no aspersions will be cast against them. Any public attacks against their names will be considered slander and will not be tolerated by my office. Let me make myself absolutely clear on this point: there will be no actions taken, no attacks, written or spoken, by any member of this community against any blood relation, business associate or Friends of Rumplestiltskin supporter without a swift response from my office. That goes for anything from graffiti and bar-room taunts to physical assaults."

Snow closes her eyes a moment, as though exhausted. "Rumplestiltskin, you and I have had a long and complicated history. I. . . " she shakes her head in confusion. "I have never been able to figure you out, even when the curse broke and I learned that your endgame all along was to recover your son. It seems to me, none of this was necessary. At any bend in the road, you could have asked for help, but instead you always acted alone, and those who could have helped you, you made enemies. You violated the laws and ethics of every community you lived in, yet you were faithful to the laws of magic and lived a sort of code of honor that the chivalrous would recognize as their own. You were never less than respectful and gentlemanly, sometimes even kind, to me, and if not for you, David and I probably wouldn't be together. I owe you a lot, and believe me, I'm grateful, but-you've killed people, you've beaten people to a bloody pulp, you've changed them into animals, for the slightest insult. I tried to explain your behavior as due to the Dark curse, because I want to be on your side, but the plain truth is, your side is evil. Or, rather, _was_ evil. To protect this community, I can't blind myself to the awful things you've done, even if I know your cruelty to be a thing of the past, even if I understand the reasons for some of your actions. I wish it could be otherwise."

_Caine: "If a man hurts me, and I punish him, perhaps he will not hurt another."_  
><em>Master Po: "And if you do nothing?"<em>  
><em>Caine: "He will believe he may do as he wishes."<em>  
><em>Po: "Perhaps. Or perhaps he will learn that some men receive injury, but return kindness."<em>

She folds her arms around her waist and shivers. She's trying to balance justice and kindness, Gold thinks. It's more than Rumplestiltskin would have done, if their situations were reversed. Is it more, though, than Gold would have done?

"We'll talk again, in private, before the sentence is enacted. If you have any questions, any special needs, you can pass them along through Emma and I'll do what I can, within the law and within reason. You may not believe this-or maybe you will; you seem to have chosen to live a paradox-but I will miss you." David and Leroy flanking her, Snow walks out a side door to avoid the crowds. A whisper is passed around the office and eventually reaches Gold; he believes it: _the queen started crying in the parking lot._

Spencer and Glass go out to address the crowd. There are no handshakes or backslaps between them: Spencer would turn on a Glass in a New York minute if he saw any profit in it. But to two-thirds of the town, they're heroes, for the moment, and they're going to soak that for all it's worth. Snow's secretary wanders off to type up his notes. The press tries to get close to the cell, but the royal guard shoves them back, so they pester Belle instead, pleading for a statement or at least a show of tears ("How does it feel?" "What will you do now?"). It's Belle, not Gold, who growls at them, "Shut the hell up, you friggin' vultures!" And that becomes the caption of the day in tomorrow's news.

Doc Miner shouts above the press' clamoring-no one has ever heard Doc shout before; it startles even his brothers. "Get out, the bunch of you, out!" He pokes at a photog with his rifle, and his loyal brothers follow suit, chasing everyone except Belle out: soon the room is almost cleared, for a moment. The dwarfs sigh in relief as they filter back inside and begin to divide up the night's guard duty into shifts. Doc brings Belle and Gold cups of cool water. "Sons of dogs," he sneers in the direction of the crowd outside. "How's your ankle holding up, Mr. Gold?"

"Now that you mention it, sore."

"I'll bring you some valerian tea later on. Thanks for teaching me about that, by the way."

"Thanks for getting rid of the reporters." Belle sips the water slowly.

"After a shock like that, gossip mongers are the last thing you need." Doc casts a quick glance at his brothers, who are hunched over a legal pad on the deputy's desk. "Listen, I love my brothers and I'll always stand beside them, but I wanted you to know, we had some loud arguments over those damn petitions. I think what Regina did to you, with the false marriage and the false pregnancy, that should've been punishment enough."

He starts to say more when Baelfire rushes in, then Josiah and Fran, then Jefferson, then Henry, who admits he ran away from Ruby, who's supposed to be keeping him away from this mess-and then Ruby, who admits she allowed Henry to run away so she could come too. Emma comes out of her office to unlock the cell and allow Bae and Belle to go in; she pretends not to notice when the rest squeeze in too. She swipes chairs from the deputy's desk and her office to allow some of this crowd to sit, and she herself leans against the open door.

Chaos reigns as everyone seems to have a suggestion for what should be done next, ranging from Jefferson's insistence that the governor be called and this whole Storybooke-gate be exposed, to Henry's plan for a jailbreak. Emma gives her son a playful shove at that suggestion.

Gold retreats to his cot, with Belle and Henry seated on the little bed beside him. He feels a bit lost in the crowd, all the more so when the nuns arrive, bearing thermoses of cocoa and plates of cookies. He lets everyone else talk it all out; for him, there's nothing to be challenged. He holds Belle close to his shoulder and whispers, "Are you okay?" She nods. "Still mad, but I'm getting better. Are you?" He nods. "Getting better."

"So we stick to the plan?" Belle wonders. "Set our house at the border's edge?"

"No."

Belle jerks back. "What?"

He's surprised himself with his answer, but it's the right one. "No. I see now that would be an insult to Snow. When I came up with that notion, it was the asshole in me talking. Living just across the border would be like thumbing our noses at her, and there are too many people in this town who would make her life miserable if it doesn't appear to them that justice has been served."

"What about our family, our friends?" Belle's eyes well up.

"They can come to see us. We'll move far enough to show respect for Snow's law, but not so far our loved ones can't reach us."

"But Henry-" Belle bites her lip to keep it from quivering. "It'll be years before he's old enough to drive. He'll have forgotten us by then."

Gold tries to lighten his voice for her sake. "Don't forget, Belle, I'm stinkin' rich, and Henry knows how to take an intercity bus. I'll just start a bus line."

Then he looks out at all these people crammed into his cell, into his life. "We're going to need a big bus." Ceecee offers him a snickerdoodle and he stares at it, bewildered."This is nothing like the last time Charming jailed me."


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

It's past midnight and except for Ruby, who's taken Henry home, none of the FOR supporters have left. The guests seem intent on staying the night in the jail, and Emma wouldn't try to stop them no matter what people say tomorrow. But there aren't enough blankets and chairs to go around–hell, there isn't enough floor space–and as the conversation inside quiets, they can hear the chanting outside: "Burn, monster, burn" and other such taunts. Faces darken, the FOR supporters grumble, and as another hour passes with no let-up from the crowd outside, the inside grumbling devolves into outright protesting.

"We're not leavin'," Dove declares. "As long as that bunch is still out there, Mr. G.'s a sittin' duck in this cell and you're no safer, sheriff."

"Em, I know you don't want to hear this, but I think you ought to deputize some of us and distribute a few guns," Bae suggests.

"There'll be no shoot-ups in my jail," Emma barks. "Nobody's getting guns or badges. No _Ox_-_bow_ _Incident_ either." Gold gives her a half-smile: some of him has rubbed off on her, apparently. "We're sneaking him out of here. And once we're in the clear, I want the rest of you to go home, and make a big show of it, you get me? Tell 'em Gold's gone so they've got no reason to hang around. Blue, you up for a little danger?"

"Bring him to the convent," Blue agrees. "No one will think to look for him there. We'll sneak him out in my car."

Emma instructs the others: "Dove, you come behind us in Fran's car. Leave your Yukon here: it's too identifiable. Bring Neal and Belle. The rest of you, wait thirty minutes, then go home, and make a lot of noise about it. Leave the door standing open so they can see Gold's gone."

She pauses a moment to think, then grabs Gold's and Blue's arms. "Stand up. Side by side." With so many people crammed into the cell, a great deal of shifting is necessary to finangle this move, and in the intervening moments, Gold figures out Emma's intention and sighs, "Oh crap." But now's not the time for protecting his public image or his masculine pride: now's the time to protect his hide, which is only half his now: he belongs to Belle and he has to start taking care of himself for her sake. So he allows Emma to stand him up against the nun, and when Emma sizes them up and asks Blue to remove her cape, he doesn't complain, and when Emma yanks off his Armani jacket and tosses it onto the cot, he whimpers just a little at the way she's crumpled it.

"Sorry, Blue, you're going to be a little cold going home," Emma says, but Blue accepts the change; in fact, her eyes are alight with adventure. "You'll ride with Dove. Gold," she slides the cape across her prisoner's shoulders, "try to walk like a nun." She checks her Smith & Wesson and to their credit, no one laughs as Gold settles into the cape and lowers his head to hide his face behind his hair. "Cecilia, you're driving. Bernadette, in the back seat with Gold. Let's go."

Bae grabs her for a quick kiss. "Careful, babe."

"If we come out of this unscathed," Gold says as he and Emma duck out the back door, "remind me to show you _3_:_10_ _to_ _Yuma_. I think you'll find it insightful, sheriff."

"Glenn Ford or Russell Crowe?" Emma smirks at him. "See? I've been paying attention."

"I'm going to miss you, Emma."

"No you won't. Just make sure you settle someplace where I can get a good bagel, 'cause you're gonna see a lot of me and Henry."

"With Bae?"

"Well, we'll see. Now get in the back seat and look nunnish."

* * *

><p>Emma's plan succeeds, in part because it's smart, but mostly because by now, the protesters are tired and cold and they figure they've won anyway; what chance does a magicless mage have in the concrete-and-steel jungle he's being exiled to? When the last of Gold's supporters have gone home, so do the protesters. Once safe behind the nuns' fortress of solitude, Emma calls Snow to tell her about the relocation; she <em>tells<em>, rather than asks forgiveness, and she hangs up before Snow can get a reactive word in.

Right after that phone call, Emma asks for a bunk to crash on: Cecilia offers hers, making a bed for herself on the couch in Blue's study. As Emma trudges off, Gold calls after her, "Don't you need to lock me in?"

Emma doesn't look back. "What the hell for?"

Blue provides Belle and Gold blankets and pillows, then leads them to their room for the night: the library. "It's not the most comfortable place to sleep," Blue starts to apologize, but Belle interrupts, "On the contrary, I'm right at home now. Thank you."

Gold just smiles.

* * *

><p>"Look, you're the queen, so deciding to jail somebody is your thing, but I'm the sheriff, so I decide where the jail is," Emma is arguing into her phone as Belle and Gold come into the kitchen, where the nuns are cooking oatmeal. "The safest place for my prisoner–and for the public–is wherever they can't find him." She listens, then sighs. "Yes, Mom, I'll be fine. I'm safer this way too. . . . When you're ready, call me and I'll come get you. No, don't bring the royal guard; it'll attract too much attention. Trust me, Mom. It's why you got me elected, right?"<p>

She sounds tired. Her rest last night was short; at four this morning she'd gone outside to spell Bae, who, along with Dove, had kept guard over the convent. Bae's now solidly asleep on a pew in the sanctuary. Dove, meanwhile, continues the vigil. But after she gets off the phone, she gives Belle and Gold a brief smile and pours herself a cup of coffee. "Sorry, no bagels today."

The Golds need to have a few changes of clothes, some cash and other necessities packed in preparation for their explusion two days from now, yet it must be done n a way that won't draw attention to the convent. She's developed a plan for that: Dove and Bae will go to the pink house, unpack the suitcases that are still in the Caddy's trunk, and replace those clothes, which need washing, with clean ones. Both men have powers of attorney for Gold, so they will stop at the bank and make a withdrawal. None of this will seem extraordinary: it's what the public would expect them to do, since Gold isn't free to take care of these chores himself and Belle will want to remain by his side. Bae and Dove will then lock the Caddy in the garage, keeping it safe from vandals, until the morning of the expulsion. Belle reminds them to bring back a change of clothes for herself and Gold for today, and passports and toiletries (she blushes when she whispers to her ex-husband just which toiletries she needs, and Gold does the same with Bae, askng for a certain box in the nightstand).

After breakfast, Gold weeds the garden with Blue as Belle and Bernie straighten the library. It gives them a much-needed, ordinary distraction. They pretend the Golds are merely going away on honeymoon; they chat idly about the very loose itinerary Belle has planned. The nuns request frequent reports and photos; no one from Storybrooke has traveled anywhere, unless Henry's bus trip to Boston and Regina's settlement in Teaneck are counted. Belle promises Instagram updates and lots of emails. She tries to sound excited, but her voice quavers sometimes. "We'll come to see you, wherever you settle," Bernie promises. "And remember, you can come back to vis–"

"No. Not until the day my husband is permitted to come too."

* * *

><p>After dark, Snow and David arrive, coming in through the woods to make certain they aren't followed. Snow asks to speak privately to Gold; Blue lends her office for the purpose.<p>

The young queen seats herself not behind the desk, but on the couch, signaling the informality of this conversation. As he sits down in an armchair facing the couch, Gold wonders what she wants to say to him–and whether it will be much different from what she actually says. Perhaps she will apologize for the necessity of her decision. Perhaps she'll attempt to molify him with reminders that he's leaving with his pockets full and he has the whole wide world waiting. Perhaps she'll justify the sentence once again. Perhaps, now that he's magicless, she'll threaten him with the consequences if he tries to violate the sentence–though this option's unlikely; even defanged, Gold is still scary.

But she doesn't do any of those things. She asks him, rather, to let go. "This town is already divided. Business partnerships have dissolved over their dfferences because of you. Neighbors aren't speaking. Families are splitting–some of them families that you helped mend. My own daughter. . . .Don't let this town come apart over you."

"What do you suggest I do?" There's a trace of satisfaction in his tone; she's admitting he still has some influence, if not power, and Gold always feels a little more at ease when he has some control.

"Accept the sentence gracefully. Start a new life. Let your supporters know you're at peace wih the circumstances. And gradually, they will come to accept it too, and the town will mend."

"Out of sight, out of mind. I'll be well out of the way during the next year."

"After that?"

"No, Your Majesty, I won't try to incite a rebellion or kidnap our grandson or threaten a coup," he growls. "There's something you don't know about me: I'm a family man. As long as I have Belle and Bae and an occasional afternoon with my grandson and daughter-in-law, I'm a happy camper. No threat to Storybrooke at all. I won't even pull my money out, because I care about what an economic collapse would do to my friends. So you have nothing to worry about. " He pulls his lips back. "Nothing to fear from me."

"Rumplestiltskin, I'm sorry it had to–"

"No you're not. But you do what you think you have to, to keep your little kingdom together, and I won't pester you if you extend me the same courtesy and don't interfere in my relationships with my friends and family. But, Your Majesty," he leans his elbows on his knees to watch her closely, "one piece of advice from a very old man: you vanquish one foe, but there will always be others. Build strong alliances and even stronger defenses." He rises, leaning on his cane. "But no, you have nothing to be concerned about as far as I'm concerned. Good luck, Snow. Between you and me, I'd rather be me than you."

He doesn't wait to be dismissed; Rumplestiltskin never was one to stand on protocol. Back stiff, he takes his leave, wandering outside to putter in the toolshed until he hears Charming's F150 crunch over the gravel, pulling away.

* * *

><p>A pair of heavy boots approach from the convent. Bae, normally graceful and lightfooted, trudges into the shed. He's a mess, running on his last gallon of gas. "Red Bulls," he says.<p>

Gold cocks his head. "What?"

"Red Bulls. That's the soccer team in New York. Actually, they're based in New Jersey and there's supposed to be a second New York team starting up next year, but for now: Red Bulls. When you come back from your honeymoon, you and me and Henry will catch a few matches, huh? I mean, if you can learn baseball, I guess I can learn soccer."

Gold nods. "Red Bulls. Sounds like something you'd drink."

Bae shrugs. "Or there's the Revolution in Boston."

"Yeah. We'll catch a few matches."

It's Bae's way, Gold tells Belle later, of indicating he'll stick by his father, even if he can't be in the same town. Having seen a bit of this amazing world's travel technology, Gold doesn't worry. He has faith in airplanes.

* * *

><p>Belle brings in atlases and road maps from the public library. On the penultimate day of Gold's residence in Storybrooke, they, Bae and Emma study the maps and the Internet to compose a list of towns the Golds might like to live in. Gold borrows a mathematical compass from the convent's classroom and draws a circle around the location of Storybrooke. "Not here," he says, drawing an X inside the circle. Then he draws a second circle around the first. "Here."<p>

They make a list of the towns outside the first circle but inside the second. The options are sorely limited, however, because Scotsman's Bay, just north of Storybrooke, takes a big chunk out of the selected territory. Five towns are left. Belle googles each, with Bae making notes. Gold's reaction to the first town's description makes it apparent that, despite his protests to the contrary, he does have certain requirements, including good roads (for his busline), good fishing and nearby woods where he can gather plants. It's not much to ask for, really, from a man who's lived four hundred years.

So Bae fashions a matrix as Belle's alphabetizing the town names–until Emma interrupts them. Emma the skeptic has found a marker of Fate. She stabs her finger at a faint spot on the map, across the twelve-mile wide Scotsman's Bay and northeast of Storybrooke about twenty miles as the crow flies, but thirty-five by road. The spot Emma's selected is on the eastern edge of Plockton Wood and within a fifty-mile radius are four lakes and a river. There is an elementary school in town and buses to take kids to the nearby county seat for middle and high school.

The town, population 2100, is called Bell's Corners.

"That's the one," Gold says. "Mr. Dove?"

Josiah nods. "The pink house will be waiting for you there when you return from your trip."

"Just a minute," Belle interjects, her face scrunching. "We haven't talked about the house yet. . . .Honey, just how attached to that house are you?"

Bae and Emma exchange a quick, bemused glance: it's still jarring to hear the Dark One being called _honey_.

Gold admits he has no particular feeling for the abode, apart from the many hours he and Belle spent there (maybe not so sentimental a place after all, he speculates; she was another man's wife most of those years, and he was the town bully.)

"Well, if you don't mind my saying so, I've never liked it," Belle blurts. " it's a bitch to clean, keeping the steps cleared of snow is a monumental task. It's like cleaning that damn castle. And going up and down those stairs to the bedrooms with a laundry basket on one hip and a baby on the other will make me old before my time." She doesn't mention the torture the stairs enact some days on his ankle. "What do we need all those bedrooms for anyway? I'd rather have three bedrooms, two baths, an open floor plan on the ground floor, a rumpus room, a proper library, and a proper, heated basement workroom for you. I hate the pink and most of all, I hate that this house was created by a curse." Then she gets to the clincher: "I've been worried about the hazard all the steps present to our babies."

"Say no more," Gold makes a snap decision. "How stupid of me not to realize. Mr. Dove?"

Dove grins. "Build or buy, sir?"

"We build, of course. Outward, not up, as few steps as possible."

"No problem, sir. We have a whole year."

"I know an architect in New York," Bae says. "She'd love a chance to build where space isn't the main challenge."

"Let's Skype her soon as we have some sketches." Gold congratulates himself for thinking of it.

"Skype, is it? My dad the geek. You go, Dad," Bae slaps him on the back.

As Emma searches the Internet for floor plans, Bae sketches and offers advice about electronic conveniences and Belle describes her dream house. It's the first she's smiled freely in two days. Gold and Dove begin to plan the landscaping. "A playground," Dove suggests. "Canopied. Eco-friendly equipment. A sandbox."

Gold is grateful: in his own way, Dove is letting him know he's comfortable with the idea of Bindy having a baby with someone else. Gold wonders if Dove has any lingering regrets about Adelena, but one thing he doesn't wonder about is how Dove will treat any children Belle and Gold may have: the big man will be like an uncle to them. Archie's helped Dove to move on, but even more so, Fran and her son and her father have given him a place to move on to. It had seemed an odd match at first: Dove's a Chicago dogs and Milwaukee beer kind of guy, and on the surface Francoise is a just-so kind of gal who thinks nothing of spending fifteen minutes just arranging a sprig of parsley on a plate. But that's not all they are; they are faceted people ("layered," Belle would say) capable of growth and willing to expand their repetoires for the sake of romance. The Baguettes take care of Dove; they fulfill his need to be needed. And that boy of Fran's just loves to tinker with cars.

Gold makes a decision: he will ask Bae to add plenty of pinball machines or whatever the gadgetry teens play with these days to the rumpus room, so that Fran's son will a place to hang out with Henry when he and his mom come to visit the new Gold house–when he and his mom and his stepdad come to visit the new Gold house.

There's a lot to think about, Gold muses, when you're building for a family as big as his.


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

**This chapter was inspired by Malarkay and her phone call idea. Thanks, Malarkay! And Hey Nonny Mouse, the conclusion, which I expect in a chapter or two, will be for you. . . .Geesh, and I thought I had my plans well under wraps! Here's hoping you'll still find a surprise or two.**

* * *

><p>At Belle's request, Doc sneaks in to the convent to provide the Golds "a little check-up before we start on our world cruise." When Doc reveals what's in his medical bag, Gold realizes he's been set up. He yelps and his eyes dart for the exit, where Bernie stands casually, blocking the only way out of the library. Well, there is the window. . . .<p>

"Roll up your sleeve."

"What for?" But Gold already suspects.

"Oh, Rumple." Belle removes his cuff link and rolls the sleeve up.

With a sterile wipe, Doc scrubs at Gold's upper arm. "This won't hurt a bit."

"What won't hurt?" Gold squirms on the couch as Doc reaches into the medical bag. "If you think you're going to jab me with that elephant hypodermic you're hiding in there–"

"Mr. Gold, some of the countries you're planning to visit require up-to-date immunizations. No shots, no entry. Worse than that, they'll put you in a detention cell until they can kick you out."

"I'm not waiting for you either," Belle warns. "If you get stopped at entry because you refused to take some shots, I'm going on without you. You want to spend your honeymoon alone?"

"But is this really necessary? Can't you put it in a pill or a nice glass of Johnnie Walker Blue?"

Doc holds one of his hypodermics up to the sunlight. "No, you don't have to take these immunizations. You can stand on the dock and wave goodbye to your wife for the next twelve months." He taps the needle. "Of course, there is another way: I could inject you in the ass."

"You do and we'll both find out how far down your throat my cane can reach."

"Let me talk to him," Belle scowls. She presses a hand against his chest and whispers something in his ear. His mouth drops open and he studies her a moment, then surmises, "You're not kidding. Are you?" When she winks at him in reply, he waves his hand. "Proceed, Doctor. You have my full cooperation." He doesn't budge but he does screech as the needle pierces his skin. He cooperates as promised, but he never said he wouldn't yelp or cuss up a storm.

Ten minutes later, and Gold has limped off to the rest room to inspect his wounds, Doc asks, "I got to know. What did you say to him?"

"I promised him, if he took the shots without griping, I'd buy him ice cream."

"Ice cream." Doc sounds skeptical. "Isn't that on his no-no list?"

"Well, for me to eat, not him."

"Not following you."

"It's not so much the eating of the ice cream. It's where the ice cream will be when I'm eating it."

"Oh?. . . . _Oooh_!"

* * *

><p>Gold had prepared a little goodbye speech for this moment; he figured it was expected of him. But in the early morning fog, as he counts the cars parked on the lawn (tearing up the landscaping on his property because the convent's driveway can't accommodate all these vehicles; he'll have to get the landscapers out here to fix that but he doesn't mind too much) he can't find his tongue so he merely nods in greeting as the drivers step out of their carriages. The Nesmiths. The Dolenzes. Ruby and Archie (ooh, holding hands now. Shame Belle won't be here to see that relationship develop). Regina's ex-maid, Marian Nottingham (but not her philandering ex-husband, from whom Gold recently won child support). Jefferson and Grace–the silly rabbits, they're both wearing silk top hats. Doc Miner and Tom Clark (the pharmacist is losing his best prophylactic customer). Moe, here to bid his daughter bon voyage. The new business owners whose dreams were kick-started by Treadle. The former staff of La Tandoor. The library staff. Marco (but not August, who's a CUSSer). Belle's book club, Bae's Little League parents, Dove's mechanic friends. With all these people knowing where Emma had Gold stashed away, how did word never leak out to SBTV, the <em>Mirror<em>, Sidney?

Gold's hand becomes sore from all the handshakes. His shoulders hurt from all the hugs. He can't find Belle among the throng of goodbye kissers.

At nine o'clock Charming's F150 arrives, squeezing between Emma's Bug and Gold's Caddy. Charming lifts his wife down (Gold still finds it bizarre to see the queen of the Enchanted Forest riding shotgun in a Ford with a dented fender and a Culture Club bumper sticker. Seems dark magic has a sense of humor.). Emma lays on the Bug's horn until everyone pipes down. "Well!" Snow stands on the convent porch to address the crowd. She frowns at Emma: this isn't at all what was supposed to happen, this motley circus parade of the blue collars, the pink collars, the white peter pan collars of the nuns. This is a joke against the solemn administration of justice, an insult to the dignity of government.

Worse, this could become a riot. Spencer and Glass may have expected trouble; perhaps that's why they stayed home. Gold can't imagine that they don't know where he's been kept.

Snow casts her eyes nervously about and David searches for signs of guns. The royal guard, except for Sneezy and Doc, join the royal couple on the porch: their presence makes a statement that nobody had better start anything or else. Her face impassive, Emma trots up the stairs to stand behind her mother. She carries no gun and once again, she hasn't cuffed Gold. In fact, the pawnbroker, dressed in a Polo shirt and jeans (but neatly pressed jeans), is resting comfortably against his car door; his bride, in a yellow sundress, is seated on the Caddy's hood. As if this is some Fourth of July picnic they're off to. There's even a picnic basket in the Caddy's back seat, compliments of Fran.

Sitting on the hood of the Bug is Henry.

No, this isn't at all how a banishment ceremony should go.

Snow shortens her speech. She expresses regret that it has to go this way, but the fact that a villain may have reformed, may even have performed some heroic deeds, doesn't mean there isn't a price to be paid for his crimes. The crowd, previously instructed by the sheriff to behave–and threatened by Ruby with unspecified punishment if they didn't–lets Snow talk uninterrupted. Then everyone piles back into their vehicles and heads for the border. Dove drives the Caddy for what may be the last time, not as a servant doing a job but as a friend doing a favor.

At the border Snow reminds Gold of the terms of the sentence; she is confident that he will honor it, as he has done all his contracts. She and her husband shake Belle's hand, then Gold's, and wish them a safe journey. Charming lifts his wife back into the pickup and they, along with the dwarfs, drive back to town.

More hugs, handshakes. Most of the Friends of Rumplestiltskin wait at the border as Gold takes the wheel and rolls the Caddy across the orange line. Waves and shouts of good luck, see you soon. But two cars follow the Caddy out of town: the Bug, with Emma doing her duty as both a sheriff and a friend, Henry in the back seat and Bae in the front; and the Yukon, with Dove and Fran.

* * *

><p>The Bug and the Yukon follow the Caddy over the Skye Bridge and into Bell's Corners. The three families overwhelm the little town's highway motel, taking all four of its vacant rooms; word spreads quickly across the village that Gold paid for the rooms with a Centurion credit card and that he asked for the number of a real estate agent.<p>

"Well," says the desk clerk, "that would be Arminta–Mayor Bell. You'll find her at City Hall. That's the second floor, above the bait and tackle shop."

"Sounds like they've got their priorities straight. I think I'm going to like it here," Gold remarks.

* * *

><p>A week passes. The Golds are in no hurry to move on, nor the Dove-Baguette family to return to Storybrooke. Emma and Henry must leave after the second day because Henry has school, but they promise to Skype often. Henry complains: he wants to stay here and go fishing.<p>

That's how business is done in Bell's Corners. Gold and Mayor Bell talk a little business and a lot of fishing as they sit in her boat on the Lake of Three Fires. They haggle just enough to make the conversation interesting, then they settle on a price and get back to topics that really matter, like whether the local white perch are more active in the mornings or evenings. When they return to town at lunchtime, they have a mess of perch, huge appetites and a deal for a parcel of undeveloped land at the edge of Plockton Woods.

As they join their spouses in the town's only diner, the mayor and Gold surrender their catch to the cook and are paid in meatloaf. The waitress/owner of the diner (she also directs community theater) brings him a bottle of ketchup without being asked and when he pays the check, she gifts him with a jar of her homemade sweet pickles. He's going to like it here.

The visitors and the mayor relax at their table long after lunch is finished and the dishes cleared. The owner sits down with them, joining in on the conversation, swapping recipes with Fran. Townsfolk drop in throughout the afternoon to meet the new residents. Everybody's got a fishing tip; nobody's intrusively curious. Nobody's in a rush and nobody tries to sell Gold anything. No one raises an eyebrow when he gives his name as Rumple Gold (maybe "Rumple" isn't weird in a town populated by Arminta and Ebenezer Bell, Persimmon Plockton, and Mapleleaf Harvey).

The mayor talks more about fishing and her grandkids than about politics or commerce; Belle points out later that by doing so, she's taught them what they really need to know about Bell's Corners, about what's important here. Belle's eyes sparkle as she crawls into the motel bed. "I want our babies to grow up here, Rumple."

"What if the locals find out about us?"

"That we're exiles?"

"About the Enchanted Forest. Who we were there, what I did there."

"You're not that man any more." Belle fluffs her pillows. "And if you were to tell them you were the Dark One, they'd probably laugh and their kids would call you Old Man Gold, that half-crazy rich guy who lives on the hill."

His razor pauses in mid-stroke. "I don't know. . . ."

"It's not as if they're going to catch you starting the grill with fireballs. That part of our lives is over. We've told them we're newlyweds looking for a quiet place to settle down and raise a family. That's the truth. What happened in the past is no longer the truth."

Thinking, he finishes his shave, then joins Belle in bed. "How much will we tell our kids?"

"Everything. A little at a time, I guess. Archie will help us figure it out."

"We shouldn't tell them until they're adults. It's a massive secret to keep, too big a burden for children." He flattens his pillows.

"If we wait until they're adults, they'll never believe us. Only kids have imagination enough to believe their father was once the most powerful sorcerer in the world."

"Exactly." Gold grins. "That way, we're being honest with them without having to pay the penalty for it."

She smacks him with a pillow.

* * *

><p>Gold glances up as Belle, wrapped in a towel, comes into the bedroom from the steamy bath. Her cheeks are red and her hair hangs loose and damp. He thinks she looks delicious. He forgets about his sore feet, earned the hard way in tramping the streets of Casablanca; to make room on the bed for Belle, he kicks aside the trinkets he's bought, earned the fun way through dickering. The street vendors of Morocco now lock up their stalls when they see him coming. Ah, but if they only knew with whom they would have had the pleasure of negotiating.<p>

"What are you looking at?" She plops onto the bed beside him and leans over his shoulder to peer at his Ipad.

"Video from Henry." Gold chuckles. "That kid's got a dark streak." He restarts the video. They recognize the counter at Granny's, with Ruby, Granny, David, Glass and Leroy gathered round, watching a small television. Henry grins into his Smartphone camera: "Hey Grandpa, hey Belle. Look! You're on _Good Morning, Storybrooke_." He turns the phone to the television.

As photos that Belle took flash on the screen, Goldie Locksley dimples for her audience. "And here's today's Gold Standard Report. _GMS _catches up with the Golds in the Mediterranean. After a month's stay in Italy, where the Golds visited Venice and Rome, they boarded the _Queen Elizabeth_ and set sail for a two-week cruise to Greece, Crete, Croatia and Turkey. Henry Mills shared these lovely photos taken by his step-grandmama. Aren't those Greek beaches beautiful? Henry also shared with us his grandfather and step-grandmother's plans."

Henry's earnest face appears on the screen. "'They're just going with the flow, wherever the wind blows. They're going to see Great Britain, of course; Grandpa's looking into renting a castle in Scotland for the summer. Belle wants to see some shows at the Globe and tour Jane Austen's House. And of course Grandpa told me the Dark One has to visit the Tower of London as professional courtesy—but then he said, 'Just a quip, not serious!' Really, it's Harrod's he wants to see. The management there promised him a private tour whenever it's convenient for him.'"

The _GMS_ camera returns to Goldie. "At the present time, the Golds plan to summer in Great Britain, then spend the fall in Japan and China. They will winter in Australasia. They expect to conclude their world tour with an exploration of South America, highlights to include, for Belle, a four-day hike along the Inca Trail, and for Gold, soccer matches in Brazil."

"Where the Golds go, _GMS _follows. Tomorrow on the Gold Standard Report: Casablanca, the real one!"

In the background, Leroy barks at Granny, "Shut that damn thing off, will ya? Or at least change the channel. There's a _Honey Boo Boo_ marathon on."

Henry turns his phone on Glass, who's tossing back a shot; Leroy, who's bitching into his bacon; David, who's shaking his head; then Emma, who grins into Henry's camera and gives a thumbs-up. There's a low, "mwa-ha-ha" laugh as Henry turns the phone around to himself. "And that's the news from Storybrooke, Grampa. Forecast for tomorrow: green. Like with envy. More later, you guys. Hey! When you get to the pyramids and stuff, are you gonna ride a camel? I want to see that. And if they have a gift shop, bring me back a sarcophagus, huh? I mean, like a model, not a real one. Love ya! Bye!"

Belle clicks her tongue. "He lied."

"Well, it was mostly true." Gold defends his grandson.

"He lied. He said that you had a personal invitation from the managers at Harrods."

"Well, okay, so it was the head buyer from the Men's Department that I played shuffleboard with last week. He admired my suits and wanted to get my opinion of a new designer he's buying from. Not really a lie, just a mix-up over job titles."

The warning rumbles in Belle's throat: "Rrrrumplestiltskinnnn."

"Okay, he wasn't the head buyer. He was an assistant."

"Rum—"

"An assistant's assistant." Gold digs around in one of his packages and fishes out a silver necklace; he smiles sheepishly as he offers it in appeasement. "For you, sweetheart."

But Belle won't be bribed. "When we get back, you need to have a talk with Henry about stretching the truth." She shuts off the Ipad. "And about inciting envy. Leroy's a friend of mine, you know, even if he has it in for you."

"The twerp. And after I saved his queen's love life by sending Charming after her—twice. Dwarfs know nothing about gratitude."

"You're four hundred years old. You should be setting an example of maturity and truthfulness for your grandson."

"Three hundred seventy-two. Or seventy-four. I forget. But I have the body of a fifty-year-old man; Doc said so." He nibbles on her earlobe. "And I know how to say 'Does this shop sell condoms' in nine languages."

_Master Khan: "In one lifetime a man knows many pleasures: a mother's smile in waking hours, a young woman's intimate, searing touch, and the laughter of grandchildren in the twilight years. To deny these in ourselves is to deny that which makes us one with nature."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN. Thank you, everyone, for all your comments and support throughout the months I've been developing this story. Especially, thanks for the thought-provoking and emotion-stirring discussion about the role of punishment in the justice system. For the writers I know, the best reward we can get is to hear a discussion stirred up by some point we've tried to illustrate through a character. And then to give our beloved characters the screen time they deserve but never get, that's the reward for fan fiction.**

**What drives me to _Once_ and keeps me coming back despite frustrations and disappointments is the question of whether Rumple will reform (I'm completely convinced he can and has come so close to it so many times). And if Rumple does reform, so many more questions arise, so many plot possibilities-he'll never be Prince Charming, but he can be the dark knight, whose alter ego is a reclusive millionaire living in a stately manor full of gadgets (imagine "I'm Batman!" in a Scottish accent). But he has to choose to reform and stay reformed, and I don't think the love of one woman will be enough; I think it will take a village. He will have to be stripped down first, lose his power and his place in society, so that he's forced to reach out to people. Once he does that, I think he'll find, to his amazement, there's a lot of love out there and then he'll choose reformation.**

**I'm hoping we'll see more stories about Rumple's reformation, trying out different ideas about retribution, revenge, correction, forgiveness and justice. It's a profound question: can broken people be mended? Can people who do evil acts (as opposed to "evil people"–I don't think Rumple is evil) be saved? If you've found "Losing to Win" interesting, probably it's because you find these questions interesting, and I hope you'll explore them in story form too. (And if you work Dove in, too, I'm your devoted fan!)**

**Coming up: everywhere he goes, he finds magic. Is it addiction or destiny? And the Golds find a surprise waiting at home.**


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

So Henry stretched the truth a bit about the castle too. (It's not lying, Gold assures Belle; it's typical boyish bragging. A fella's got to brag about his dad and grandpas; it's a social requirement; and until recently Henry didn't have any male kin to brag about.)

It's a B & B the Golds stay in when they visit Loch Ness, and they stay only three weeks, not the summer as Henry had boasted. Not that Gold couldn't have afforded a castle, but Belle adores waking up in a cozy, quilted bed with the smell of breakfast cooking and the warm voices of other guests exchanging pleasantries with the hosts rising from downstairs. Gold would prefer privacy, but as with the sunshine she insisted on bringing into the Dark Castle, he's happier when she gets her way than when he gets his. For her, he'll get used to anything. In return, Belle learns to appreciate soccer and tolerate the odd fishing expedition, as long as it doesn't involve standing in a cold river.

"Where are you from?" The host asks as they sign the register. "I recognize your accent, Missus, as Melbourne, but you," he peers at Gold, "I can't place. Nova Scotia, perhaps?"

Belle giggles as her husband reddens. "I'm told I was born in a little village called Lochdubh." Gold doesn't mention that the source of that information was a curse. "But that was a long time ago. I've lived in several places since then."

"Oh. Well, welcome to Scotland. You've come then to look for Nessie? Most people do."

"No, came for a bit of fishing. And we're on our honeymoon."

"I can help with _that_! The fishing, of course, not the honeymoon. A fisherman—we get so few of them; the monster hunters drove 'em out. Now, I see you've brought no gear, but I can outfit you nicely. . . ."

Truth be told, though, Gold has come to see Nessie. He's one of the few who can. He has a debt to pay. Fully outfitted, though not expecting to get much fishing done, he and Belle rent a boat and go out in the late afternoon. "I'd rather not be out here after dark," Belle shivers.

"We won't be," he assures her. "We'll come out again in the morning, but for now, I want to talk to the creature who lives here, and he usually doesn't wake up until mid-day. The lazy git."

Suddenly the waters churn, waves threaten the rowboat, and Belle clings for dear life to the bench as Gold struggles with his paddles to keep the boat upright. "Knock it off!" he shouts. "Damn it, Gary, I've got my wife with me."

A serpentine head half the size of the boat rises slowly from the water. The mouth opens and as Belle clutches to reality, a strangely high-pitched voice issues forth. "Sorry, wizard. I thought you might like to play." The creature dips it snaky head. "Sorry, milady."

"Th-that's all right." Belle's teeth chatter.

"Gary, this is Belle of Avonlea, my wife. Belle, meet Gary of Camelot."

"Greetings, milady. I've never been to Avonlea but I've heard it's lovely. I don't get to travel much."

"I've come to fix that," Gold says sheepishly.

Belle muses, "Camelot. Did you know Arthur?"

"No, milady. I was a lowly shoemaker." The creature cocks it head and. . .glares?. . . at Gold.

"What Gary's implying in his not-so-subtle way is that it's my fault he's. . .like this." Gold points a paddle at the creature. "A monster."

"A sideshow freak," Gary grumbles. "I have a wife too, you know, not that I'll ever see her again. She's back in Camelot. Can't even write her a letter because the wizard here gave me no hands."

"I'm sorry, Gary. That was a nasty thing for me to do and I apologize. I'm here to fix it." Gold lays his paddles down and digs around in his jacket.

"Did he tell you what he did to me, milady?" Huge tears roll down the monster's cheeks. "He threw a hissy fit and turned me into a sea serpent, and then a pirate came along and captured me and sold me to the knave of Wonderland, where I was forced to give the courtiers rides around the moat. Do I look like a pony to you, milady? And then a realm jumper took me from Wonderland to Neverland, and then there was a typhoon and I landed atop a giant's beanstalk and I ate some beans and poof! I woke up here. All because Master Particular there didn't like the shoes I made him."

"They pinched my bunions!"

"And for that I deserved to be turned into a sea serpent? You could have asked for a refund."

"I'm making it up to you. I can't send you back to Camelot because I don't have a portal, but at least I can make you human again. Here, open your mouth and tilt back your head." Gold pours the contents of a vial into the serpent's maw.

The creature bellows. "Oh that's awful stuff. Tastes like my wife's beef stew." He shudders and glows, his features slowly unform and reform, and after several tense minutes the serpent is gone, replaced by a man. A naked man, the Golds learn as they drag him into the boat. Gold gives him his jacket but it doesn't salvage the man's modesty. "Conjure me some clothes. I'm freezing here!"

"I can't." Gold picks up his paddles and avoids looking at Gary–for more reasons than one. "No magic. All I had was that potion I made years ago."

"No magic? What do you mean? You're Rumplestiltskin, the most powerful sorcerer in all the lands."

"Not any more. Look, I'll row you ashore and Belle can run into town with my AmEx and buy you some clothes."

"And shoes." Gary swings around to face Belle, but she blushes and pretends to study her fingernails. Though Gold does catch her sneaking one little peak. "Size 11BB. I'm hard to fit but if you can't find the right size, forget it. I don't want to develop bunions."

"I'm sorry I can't get you back to your wife," Gold says sincerely.

"Never mind. She took size 10EE. Besides, she couldn't cook worth spit. Maybe you could drop me off that tavern on the hill. There's a barmaid I've been watching."

Gold rolls his eyes and Belle sneaks another peek.

* * *

><p>That, he promises, was his last involvement of any kind with magic. Belle says it was completely understandable, a noble act of recompense. They do all the touristy things in Scotland, they chat with the locals (Belle chats, he nods), they buy trinkets to send home to "the kids" (Gold chuckles when Belle refers to Bae and Emma as "the kids").<p>

In pubs they listen to songs about selkies and poems about kelpies. Rather, Belle listens; Gold yaks about football.

Everywhere they go, he has the sense he's being followed. Not by a who but a what: magic. He shrugs the phantom off. After close to four hundred years as a practitioner, he should expect to feel something, the same way people who've lost a limb do.

In London pubs it's Merlin and football. In Ireland, elves and football. In Sidney, it's The Dreamtime and football. The Golds sample the music, the stories, the plays, the food and the art of every country they visit, and somewhere in all of it there's a hint of magic. Ridiculous. Why do people spend so much time on something that doesn't exist in their world, something they can't have? He plugs his ears to these stories. Archie tells him that alcoholics should stay out of pubs and magic addicts should stay out of fantastical conversations. Thank the gods for football.

* * *

><p><em>"–unemployment rate in Storybrooke rose to 7.2 percent this month. On a related note, the library is hosting a series of job readiness workshops, beginning Monday with 'Networking 101'"–<em>

Gold interrupts the broadcast of _GMS_ playing on his Ipad. "That's the last skill Storybrookers need. Everybody's already connected by blood or marriage to everyone else."

"Not funny, Rumple." Belle nudges him with her bare foot. "Those are our friends losing their jobs."

"The City Council needs to set up a business development office. The trouble is, under the curse, nothing changed, so now that we–they–need development, no one in Storybrooke knows how. They need to bring in a consultant to develop a plan."

"That sounds like a good idea. Are you going to introduce it?"

Gold snorts. "Who, me? Even though they'd know I'm right, none of them would listen. But your father's the current president of the Chamber of Commerce, right?"

"It was his turn. They go in reverse alphabetical order and you were the last one, remember?"

Gold grins nastily. "Oh yeah. . . I forgot because I never held a meeting. Loan me your Surface?" He opens his Gmail account. "Okay, it's time to see if I've earned any cache with your father in the eight months, three weeks and two days we've been married. What's his email address?"

"What else? Gameofthorns at Yahoo. Eight months, three weeks and–how many days?"

"Two." Gold's two forefingers jab furiously at the keyboard.

"All that time," Belle hums. "Where's my eighth month anniversary present?"

"Right here." He points to the salutation he's just typed. "I'm helping your father save his business, free of charge. Does he go by 'Moe' or ''Maurice'?"

"That's a pretty good present. Moe."

_"'And in today's Gold Standard Report: Gold goes gold, as Belle and Rum tour Versailles!'"_

Gold's head snaps up. "'Rum'?! Who the hell gave her permission to call me 'Rum'?"

"They're just trying to make you sound. . .accessible. Easy-going." Belle pets his floof soothingly. "But you're right, dear; she went too far. Not even I call you 'Rum.'"

"Please don't start." He resumes his typing.

_"–grandson Henry tells us that upon entering the Hall of Mirrors, Rum quipped, 'Quick, cover them before Regina catches us!' The couple–'"_

"I did not," Gold complains.

"I remember what you said." Belle toys with the shell of his ear. "You said in our new house, you would build me a dressing room of mirrors, so that I could see how beautiful I am when I'm undressing."

"And in the bathroom and the bedroom–mmmm." He closes his eyes briefly. "Sweetheart, how do you expect me to write a letter to your father when you've got my mind under your clothes?"

"Just tell him you're being a dutiful husband and commemorating your eighth-month, two-week, whatever, anniversary." She unbuttons his shirt. "Or just say we're newlyweds in Paris, doing what all newlyweds do in Paris."

_"'Next stop for Rumbelle: yodeling and wooden shoes!"_

"They didn't even get their stereotypes straight," Belle grumbles.

"'Rumbelle'!?"

"'Yodeling'? Huh! Now there's something we haven't tried."

"Sweetheart, you were yodeling like an alpinist last night, or have you forgotten?"

* * *

><p>Belle exchanges email addresses all around Europe: "If you ever come to Maine. . . ." She draws the entire world in toward her, making it cozy and warm like one big B &amp; B. Gold becomes an encyclopedia of information about soccer teams and fishing all around the planet. He never becomes comfortable talking to strangers the way Belle does, but with those two topics he can always start a conversation.<p>

He gets indigestion, heartburn, heat rash, blisters everywhere they go. But when they tuck in at night–a pension in Barcelona, a four-star hotel in Shanghai, a treelodge in Zululand, a sublet in Sidney, a capsule in Tokyo–he doesn't mind at all because they talk for hours and they sleep well.

In most of their travels, it's all for her. She chooses the destination, the activities, the accommodations; this is her dream they're living and he's proud to give it to her. They check off every item on her bucket list: snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, zip-lining in New Zealand, riding camels to the pyramids; watching Noh theater, the Moscow Ballet, _King Lear_ at the Globe, Diwali fireworks in MumbI; kissing the blarney stone, bicycling the south of France. Belle sends photos and videos to Henry; he sells them to GMS and Youtubes the broadcasts back to them.

Every Sunday they Skype with Bae or Emma or Dove, who reports on the progress of the new house. Dove inspects it weekly, enjoying the escape from Storybrooke, which has entered an economic and emotional slump. He says his blood pressure drops ten points the minute he crosses that orange town line.

Emma reports, her mouth twisting down, that the town has invested heavily in a tourism campaign. "'Storybrooke: Feel the Magic.' We paid fifty grand to a Boston ad agency for that campaign. All the shops along Main Street got repainted: bubblegum pink and baby blue and sunshine. It's too cute for words. And a waste: no one's come."

"Probably for the best," Gold mutters. "If any tourists spent too much time hanging around, they might learn something they shouldn't. "

"On the bright side," Bae says, "Treadle's invested in three new businesses. Three families are now earning above the poverty line. But it's still rough. Amy's Ice Cream went out of business. The bank foreclosed on the Zimmerman house. The Rabbit Hole is watering down its drinks and they've got a strip show on Saturdays."

"Oh gods, not Amy's. . . ."

* * *

><p>In September it's Gold's turn to check off the one item on his bucket list: a visit to the Shaolin Temple in Dengfeng, China. He's disappointed in the commercialism and the tourist overcrowding, but he is impressed with the students' martial arts demonstration. It isn't the spiritual experience he's seeking, however, so he makes inquiries and arranges a weekend stay at the Bailin Zen Monastery, and that experience comes closer to what he's hoping for as he and Belle are taught meditation and prayer.<p>

"Why is it so hard for me?" he asks a monk as he struggles to enter a meditative state. "It comes so easily for Belle."

The monk taps his damaged ankle. "Her soul and her nature are one. Your soul runs from its nature."

"I have to."

The monk shakes his head. "Power doesn't bend men; men bend themselves for the sake of power. Learn that and you can stop running."

* * *

><p>Through their travels, he and Belle must depend upon strangers for guidance and interpretation. In the early months, he finds this frustrating, and several times when they're alone in whatever quarters they will sleep in for the night, he whacks his cane and curses. This dependence, which doesn't faze Belle, makes him feel powerless. He fights the longing to have his magic back so that he won't be vulnerable to thieves and fools. The visit to Bailin is a turning point, as he is now able to calm himself.<p>

And, he must admit, his money helps. The Centurion card speaks when he doesn't know the language. Probably, that's cheating, and cheating is evil, but he is more aware now than ever before of his physical limitations, and the money goes a long way to compensate. If that means he's still a bit of a villain, so be it. He is who he is.

* * *

><p>In Peru, Belle comes back from her Inca Trail trek a conquering hero. He feels just a little left out, but there's no way his ankle could have tolerated that hike, one of the most challenging in the world. He pushes his bitterness down and yanks his pride in her up. When she relates to him the tales she picked up on the hike, of shamans and <em>curanderos<em> and Ayahuasca ceremonies, he shuts the stories out at first; he wants nothing to do with practices that can only be based on deception and fantasy. There is no magic in this world. Period.

But there are herbs that can take pain away, plants that can cure infection and mend injuries. Nothing magical about them; just chemistry. Belle wrangles an invitation for him to study for a month at a shamanic retreat in Lima in exchange for teaching the other healers some of what he's learned about North American medicinal plants. Belle, meanwhile, hikes the Shaski Trail, takes parasailing lessons, strolls the Mujica Gallo and takes cooking classes at SkyKitchen.

The _curanderos_ kick him out the first day when he flatly denies the existence of magic in this world (he makes no statement concerning its presence in other worlds), but on the way out, as he passes by a shaman who's pulverizing some dried leaves in a bowl, he clicks his tongue. "You're wasting half their healing power."

The shaman grunts, "_Que_?"

Gold's translator, a pre-med major studying at Ceytano Heredia University, rolls his eyes. "Don't criticize, Mr. Gold. Shamans have been studying at this healing center for almost two hundred years."

"Only two? Translate, Arcani, that's what I'm paying you for. Let me worry about my manners. Tell him that leaf there, the one that's shaped like an eye, don't dry it. Press the juice from about forty of them, then mix the juice with just a dropperful of pisco and two quarts of distilled water—no less than two quarts, because it's powerful stuff. Then drink a cupful neat at room temperature. Eat a slice of bread immediately afterward to avoid an upset stomach. And that, dearies, is how you make a cure for intestinal parasites, which is what our shaman friend here has."

Arcani translates faithfully, but with his feet edging toward the exit. Through the entire prescription, the shaman stares coldly at Gold. When Arcani concludes (and hangs his head with a shamed sigh), the shaman stands, wiggles a finger at Gold and walks from the room.

"He wants you to follow," Arcani explains, unnecessarily. Gold has already trailed after the shaman. They end up in a greenhouse, with the two old men arguing by shouting in their native languages (for Gold, a long-dead language from the Frontlands) shaking their heads vehemently and jabbing fingers at various plants. Arcani is still embarrassed at first, but soon enough, he gets involved in the discussion; he's learning in one afternoon what would take him half a semester in med school. When the evening dinner bell rings, the shaman laughs, slaps Gold on the back and pronounces, "_Bueno_."

Gold wonders if it's dinner or himself that's _bueno_. He doesn't ask though; something in him says it's bad luck for a villain to be called good. He does smile at the thought of what the shaman might say if he knew his new teacher is the Dark One.


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

The extended stay puts the Golds two months late (one month for the trainings, then another month of lolling about on the beaches of Brazil to make up for the month that they were apart) in returning to the States, but neither of them minds; their sense of the passing of time has changed, along with their priorities.

"Email from Gary," Belle announces, her fingers flashing over the keys of her Surface like a pianist playing "Flight of the Bumblebee."

Gold is lying back in his flattened airline seat, a blanket across his knees, a pillow beneath his head and a bag of peanuts between his fingers. Every so often he plucks one out and pops it into his mouth; every so often he turns his head slightly and through the little window, admires the thin layer of clouds beneath the plane's wings. "Magic," he murmurs, half-asleep.

"Hmm?" Belle pauses to sip her Screwdriver. This is her first taste of the cocktail, and from the wrinkles creasing her nose, he suspects it will be her last. A chuckle rumbles in his throat: after all their travels, she's still a beer-and-burgers girl.

"Magic," he repeats. "All of this." His hand waves lazily in the air, indicating the plane and her Surface. "If the stuff of this brave new world had existed in the Enchanted Forest, no one would have bothered to study sorcery. So what does Gary say?"

She smiles smugly as her eyes roam his completely comfortable body. Not a muscle in that body is tight; not a nerve twitches. This is the culmination of her work, and he's given her full credit for it. He's got everything he wants, he's given her the world as he promised, and now they're going home. Belle rouses from her reverie. "He's asking legal advice. He says since it's your fault he has this legal problem, he's sure you'll do the right thing and take the case for free."

"Hmph. All lawyering comes with a—" but Belle slugs him. "All right, what's the problem?"

"That barmaid he had his eye on: she said yes."

"To his proposal?"

"Both of his proposals. Now it seems they're expecting and they're engaged."

"Ah. So he's worried he's facing a bigamy charge."

"Yes."

"Tell him this: Marriages made in the Enchanted Forest are not recognized in Scotland, since Scotland has not recognized the Enchanted Forest. So as far as Scotland is concerned, he's single."

Belle raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"I don't know, but it sounds pretty good, doesn't it?"

Belle types. "I'm also extending our congratulations and best wishes for his happiness."

He reaches over to her seat tray for the Screwdriver and finishes it for her. "I'm glad for him. Everyone should have a home, even a sea serpent who makes a lousy pair of shoes." He switches on his Ipad, plugs in his earbuds and lies back, closing his eyes to focus on the Royal Concertgbouw, the best orchestra in the world, according to _Gramophone_. And now according to Gold, who's heard them for himself. He can't imagine one thing they missed on this tour, not one ambition they've left unfulfilled.

Well, except. . . In one of his suitcases is a nearly empty box he picked up at a pharmacy in Lima. He's thinking of throwing that box away when they get home, and the next trip he makes to a pharmacy will be for shaving cream or breath mints. He's pretty sure Belle will be cool with that.

* * *

><p>"You look different," Henry remarks. "Both of you."<p>

"We're tanned and toned. Lots of exercise outdoors," Belle explains.

Under his breath, Gold adds, "And indoors." Belle hears that and gives his knee a slap.

"Something else," Henry ponders. He points to Belle: "You look older." He points to Gold: "And you look younger."

"Is that a compliment?" Belle wonders. "Maybe it's just that we've met a lot of people and learned a lot of things."

"We heard some new ideas, even me, and I thought I'd heard it all. Our outlook has changed, I'd say." Gold wiggles in his seat as subtly as he can; he's back in Armani for the first time since they left Paris and the clothes make him itch. But he's wearing them out of respect for their family, who've come all the way from Maine to pick them up at JFK. They're throwing a welcome back party at one of Bae's favorite New York pizzerias, Lombardi's. After a restful night at the Mark, they'll squeeze in a ballgame at Yankee Stadium, and then it's home.

Later, Gold will reflect upon the conversations of this evening and recall that, whenever Bae, Josiah or Henry spoke of going back, they used the words "Maine" or "home" exclusively, not "Storybrooke." But now, they're talking about Teaneck, from whence they've come: Henry has spent two weeks there with Regina.

"How is she?" Belle asks politely, but beneath the tablecloth, her foot is tapping madly. Gold sets a calming hand on her knee. Calming for her, that is; not so much for him. She's wearing a short skirt.

"She's okay. She got promoted to vice president of sales at the Volvo dealership," Henry answers. "She's going out with a guy who works at a bank. She wants to go back to the Enchanted Forest, though. She keeps talking about the old days."

"That's understandable," Belle says. "She was a queen then."

"She wants you to visit her, Grandpa."

"Did she say what she wants to talk to me about?"

Henry ducks his head and occupies himself with a breadstick. "She wants you and Jefferson to build a portal."

Gold shakes his head. "Sorry, Henry. It can't be done, and even if it could, I wouldn't. I'm done with all that."

"Really? But you could do anything! You were the most powerful sorcerer in the world."

Gold shakes his head again. "You know how you said I look younger? I think giving up magic is the reason why. Yeah, magic's great, but it wrecks you. Anyway, if I still had magic, I wouldn't have the bunch of you, so it was a smart trade."

"Glad to have you back, Pop. In all ways," Bae says. "Real glad."

"Me too," Gold says.

"Say, Grandpa, since the portal's off the table, you're gonna have some time on your hands. How about a job? I've been talking to SBTV about a reality show, _Going for the Gold._Or maybe just _Rumbelle_."

"You've got a silver tongue and gold in your veins, young man, but the answer's an emphatic, unchangeable no. Now, let's talk about something important: how about them Yankees?"

* * *

><p>Driving back to Maine, Bae asks Belle if she'd mind sitting up front with Jo, because he hss something to talk to Gold about. Belle squeals and pats his shoulder. "Congratulations, Baelfire!"<p>

"Oh, no, it's not that. I mean, I hope you guys will congratulate us, but it's not me and Em, it's me and Josiah."

Flabbergasted, Belle stares at his back as he climbs into the back seat. She hardly notices as Jo lifts her into the shotgun seat. The Yukon's engine fires up and Jo steers them masterfully out of Manhattan. It's total silence in the car, even from Henry, who's just been to his first professional ballgame and has plenty to talk about, so Gold smells a conspiracy, a secret they think he won't like. He may surprise them. As long as Snow hasn't decided to assign him life in prison, he can adjust.

"You're going to notice a few differences when you get back to Bell's Corners." Bae removes a small white box from under his seat and presents it to his father. "This is part of it. Open it."

Inside Gold finds a small gold medallion and a matching pair of earrings. "What is this?"

"The next big thing, Pop. A music system. The earrings deliver the sound directly into the ears without any leakage; someone standing next to the wearer won't know she's listening to music. The medallion has the memory chip. The system can take voice recognition verbal commands: you say 'Play Pink Floyd' and it does. You can program playlists with verbal or typed-in commands. You can plug the medallion into a USB port and download from Itunes. It was _born_, like they all are, in Silicon Valley, but it was _conceived_ in Bell's Corners. And it's just the first; Apple expects it will have plenty of brothers and sisters, all conceived in Bell's Corners.

"It's like this. After you'd been gone about three months, me and Josiah were here one weekend to see how the house was coming along. Arminta took us out fishin', just to unwind; it had been a rough week in Storybrooke. That was supposed to be the week our tourism campaign turned our economy around, and you know how that went. We'd also been fighting for your idea about a development office, but the City Council didn't want to pay for a new city department. Well, we were stressed, so we came out here and Arminta took us fishin' and while we were out in her boat, just chillin' and listening to the radio, we heard that Apple Computers was holding a company convention in Boston for creative staff. The idea was to take them out of their routine, put them with new people and they'd come up with new ideas. Well, we were sitting in the boat, talking about that, and we got the idea that instead of being in a hotel conference room all day, those R and D types might do better to get out of the concrete jungle, you know, really relax like we were. We thought, what if we brought them to Lake of Three Fires for a little R and R and D? The Bells have that real nice fishing cabin right on the lake, and you always said, 'Thinking's easier with a fishing pole in your hand.'

"So one of us–don't remember who–got this bug up our butts and Arminta thought it would be a good idea, and the three of us, we went to Logan with two Yukons and stood around waiting for the flight from Cupertino to arrive, and when it did, we grabbed those R and D guys right off the plane, claiming we were from the company and there'd been a change of plans, one that the Training Department thought would give these scientists a whole new perspective. And we loaded the ten of them into our cars and brought them to the lake. You should've seen them, these scientists with their PhDs, rolling up their pants legs and wading in the lake like a bunch of kids. We taught them how to build a campfire, and they roasted weenies and S'mores and we told 'em fairy tales and tucked 'em into sleeping bags real nice. When we took them out fishing the next morning, they didn't have anything else to do while they waited for a bite, so they started talking about the next big thing. That's what they called it because at that point they didn't have a clue what it would be.

"Well, the R & D guys called Corporate and told them about the change in plans, and Corporate was plenty pissed, but they mellowed when the R and D guys told them they already had a concept for their next big thing thought up. This." He points to the box. "Actually that's a prototype. A buggy one. The final product's supposed to be on the market at Christmas. They're calling it Apple Goldwear, after us. Corporate was so happy they signed a deal with the mayor for annual fishing trips for key people in the company. The Finance Department's scheduled to come in January for ice fishing. We're kinda hoping you'll take the Finance people out; you speak their language. So you'll see the Bells' fishing cabin's been expanded and modernized–even has wi-fi. We're not going to allow too much development, though; the town won't stand for it and besides, it's the rustic experience Apple wants."

"Signed a deal, huh? I hope Arminta didn't get taken advantage of."

"For one weekend of fishing per month, Bell's Corners gets a hundred grand a year. Plus half a percent on Goldwear sales."

Gold grins. "I hope Apple didn't get taken advantage of."

"The City Council voted to build a medical clinic with the windfall. Unanimous vote, only took us ten minutes of discussion, after Doc Miner said he'd be the first tenant. It was the women who wouldn't brook any argument. You see, they've been having to drive to Augusta to see an OB/GYN."

"Doc Miner!" Belle beams. "Did you hear that, Rumple? The gods are with us."

"Perfect timing," Gold approves. "But, Bae, did I catch the word 'we' in there somewhere?"

"Meet the Bell's Corners' new councilmen: Josiah Dove–"

"Hope I'll have your vote in the next election," Dove grins over his shoulder.

"And Baelfire Gold."

Gold clears his throat. "You changed your name then."

"Yeah. It started feeling right."

"Congratulations on your election, Councilman Gold."

Belle catches on to something else. "Does that mean you're living in Bell's Corners? Both of you?"

"I'm commuting, so I can still run the pawnshop," Dove says. "For now, I'm living in the Bells' fishing cabin. Fran and her family moved to Bells' Corners, though. The economic downturn in Storybrooke was killing her business."

"You know, I think she's right: the market in Storybrooke is played out," Gold speculates. "Let's do a feasibility study of relocating the shop."

"Sounds good, Mr. G."

"I bought a house," Bae says, and his father hoots like a cowboy at round-up. "A two-bedroom fixer-upper."

"I'm one of the fixers," Henry grins. "Dad and I are retiling the bathtub next weekend."

"And Emma?" Gold asks quietly. "Has she moved?"

"She's still got half a year left on her term of office, so she stayed in Storybrooke for now. But on her days off, she brings Henry out and we work on the house together."

Gold pries no further. He doesn't need to: he sees the smug look on his grandson's face and the contented look on his son's.

"Bae, you and Josiah are born dealmakers," Gold says. "And farsighted politicians. You've brought development into town in the least intrusive and most environmentally friendly way. I'm proud to live in a town with such leaders."

"Thanks, Pop." It's what every boy needs to hear from his dad, even if the boy in question is almost three hundred years old. "Got those qualities from you," Bae replies. It's what every parent need to hear from their child, even if the parent is almost four hundred years old.

* * *

><p>Belle is sitting at the kitchen table with her woolly slippers propped up on the chair opposite as Gold patters, barefoot, to the coffee pot. They've been in their five-bedroom, two-bath home for a month now and it's a new plaything to them; they keep rearranging wall hangings and furniture, and they've decided to spend a full week in each bedroom before they decide which will be the master bedroom. "Love this new-house smell." Gold breathes in deeply. "Wonder if it can be bottled?"<p>

Belle glances up from her Surface. "Email from Gary. He sent wedding photos."

Gold leans over his wife's shoulder to see, and while he's there, he kisses the top of her head. "I wouldn't have recognized him with clothes on."

"He went back to shoemaking. We also got an email from Arcani. He says he got an A in organic chemistry."

"As well he should. He–"

The back door swings open and Bae backs in. His arms are full of packages. "Gifts from Apple. The final version of the Goldwear jewelry set. They'd like to get some comments from their friends in Bell's Corners, the message says, before they go onto the market."

"And donuts and bagels!" Emma pops in behind him. Her gift is more welcome; Gold takes the goodies and plate them as Belle starts some scrambled eggs. The four adults move around the kitchen efficiently, each in a pre-established cooking role. A rumbling from the backyard prompts an explanation from Bae: "That'll be Henry. He's mowing your yard today because he has a game tomorrow."

"Good man, that Henry."

"You overpay him, Pop. Ten dollars would be enough."

"One of the rights that come with being a grandpa. Any brothers or sisters you provide him, I'll spoil equally."

"You're fishing for information again, aren't you, Gold?" Emma tugs at his ear as she passes behind him. "I thought we had an agreement: we don't ask you That Question, and you don't ask us."

"You can't blame a gran–ow!" Emma tugs his ear more forcefully. "Okay, I'll drop it."

"Now, if we're done with the baby teasing, shall we get on with other business?" Emma folds her arms. All food preparation stops: there's something so naturally authoritative in her tone. "Family," she begins, and the glint in her eye as she says it mirrors the glint in Bae's and Gold's. "My term of office expires in three months. I won't be running again."

"Emma," Belle breathes. "You're moving here."

"Yeah. Before you get all squee, no, we're not getting married yet, though it is on the table. We don't want any nagging or teasing about it, okay? But even though Storybrooke's just thirty-five miles away, we thought it would be better for Henry to have both of us in his life every day. So I'll be looking for work here and Henry and I will move when the school term ends in May."

"Your parents? Are they okay with this?" Belle asks.

"They're kinda bummed, but when we finish the basement, that's where Henry's bedroom will be, and we'll use the second bedroom upstairs as a guest room. So they can visit, and we'll go back to Storybrooke a couple of times a month."

"Welcome to Bell's Corners, Emma. Enjoy your stay." Gold echoes his first greeting to her, a lifetime ago.

* * *

><p>Gold tosses the empty box into the trash can as he climbs into bed. "This is the last one." He shows her the little red packet in his palm. "Should I stop at the pharmacy tomorrow after work?"<p>

Belle's hand closes around his. In a flash the packet is flying through the air and lands in the trash can. She smiles smugly.

"I take that as a no," he begins to say, but her mouth fastens to his.


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

Bell's Corners has found a path to growth without overly rapid expansion. The City Council honors their deal with Apple by making it industry-exclusive: no other computer/electronics companies will be offered a retreat plan. But non-competing industries and professional societies are: within the next year, retreat packages that include think tanks, campouts, hiking, landscape painting lessons, woodcrafts, historical tours, nature education, horseback riding, archery, boating, swimming, snowmobiling and canoe building are constructed and tailored to the requesting buyers' goals. Within five years, groups as diverse as the Songwriters Guild of North America, the Maine Bar Association (Gold made a few calls to set that up), the American Advertising Federation, the Art Directors Club of Pennsylvania, and Disney keep the retreat–limited to fifty individuals, so as not to overtax the lakes and the woods–going year round. Fran becomes the chef for the retreats, offering organic gourmet meals prepared and served by her staff of five high-school students, who are getting class credit for the culinary arts; Eb Bell comes out of retirement to run the hospitality end with a staff of six, most of them high-schoolers learning the hospitality trade.

They call the program Creativity Camp and the motto is "Thinking is easier with a fishing pole in your hand."

The highway hotel adds a few rooms. Under Belle's guidance, a one-room public library opens next door to City Hall, above the bait and tackle (which has hired three full-timers). Josiah closes the Storybrooke pawnshop and opens Gold Dove Antiques next door to Persie's Place; it becomes a weekenders' tourist destination, and the diner starts a Saturday high tea for the antiquers. It complements the Friday Fish Fry Persie's offers the fishermen.

And Old Man Gold, who never does earn his crazy title from the local kids, gets absorbed into the formation of the medical clinic, for soon after Doc arrives, so do a good many of the women of Storybrooke. Having lost their beloved OB/GYN, they drive into BC (as they now call Bell's Corners) for their appointments, and they make a day of it, with high tea and shopping at Ashley's Closet for maternity and infant wear (for who knows more about maternity wear than the woman who wore it for twenty-eight years).

Gold's part in the med center is twofold: he helps raise money for it (his Old Time Ice Cream Social is the kickoff for the annual campaign–the "ice cream" part makes the "social" bearable in his view). And he's a supplier for those doctors who wish to incorporate herbalism into their practice. He likes that work best: it gives him an excuse to putter in his garden or tramp in the woods, while Blue joins him once a month to offer training to the docs.

Every once in a while, he's asked to take a custody or child support case. To clear his head after one of those battles, he likes to take an adoption case pro bono.

He chats sometimes by Skype with Master Won-Que from the Bailin Zen Monastery. Sometimes the master leads Gold through a meditation; sometimes they just talk about everything concerning anything. Won-Que remains firm in his counsel to Gold: the monk believes that Gold is denying a central part of his nature and until he reclaims it, he cannot be at peace with himself. Gold usually argues back: he's got family, friends, purpose, health and happiness. What more can there be?

"You look at your damaged ankle and you see failure. If you could, you would cut away the ankle to cut away the damage." Won-Que explains. "Likewise, you look at the hidden power within your nature and you call it evil; you would cut it out if you could. You can't remove it, so you hide from it. You live a half-life. Seek to uncover all that you are so that you can stand whole. When you can see yourself in entirety, you will be in harmony with your nature."

Gold wonders how much the monk knows about him. The "m" word never passes between them, however, and Gold's not about to raise the subject. Anyway, it's a moot point now: magic may be a part of his nature, but it's not a part of this world; he couldn't reach it even if he wanted to.

And he certainly doesn't want to go through_ that_ hell again.

* * *

><p>"I'm spending more time here than in Storybrooke," Blue says. She's on her knees in Gold's garden, poking holes in the soil with a stick as he follows along behind, dropping in seeds that his shaman friend sent him. He intends to cross these plants with a native, and if he's right, he'll have a safe, natural cure for migraines.<p>

"Attendance at our school has dropped by twenty percent," Blue continues. "Attendance at church services is down by fifteen percent. People are moving out of Storybrooke. We nuns don't have enough to do."

Gold hides a smile.

"Anyway, we were thinking, if we had a small parcel of land to move to, we'd like to relocate the convent here."

"There is work to be done here," he says amiably. "The convent is a sound, attractive structure. It ought not stand empty. It could be moved."

"You've done some successful fundraising for the clinic. Just wondering if you might be inclined to do the same for us." She's gnawing her lip.

A bubble of laughter emits from his chest. "The eternal defenders of light are asking their mortal enemy to help them rebuild their clientele."

"Yeah. We are. Except it's been a long time since we thought of you are the Dark One."

"Dearie, I'm going to surprise you. I'm going to say yes, because I don't think of myself as the Dark One either."

* * *

><p>The Golds are just a little nervous as they seat themselves in monogram chairs across from Doc's faux Louis XIV desk. On the walls in Doc's office are photos of every baby he's delivered in this world: if a potential patient were to go by these photos, they'd figure Miner was a newcomer to obstetrics, but every woman in Storybrooke knows not to count those first twenty-eight years of his career, when the curse prevented conceptions and births (and deaths). In the five years since, Doc's delivered twenty babies, with maximum dependence on nature and minimal medical interference. The Golds are determined to increase that record to twenty-one.<p>

Doc's office bustles. He has a staff of four full-timers, including a nurse practitioner. Once a week a lactation consultant and a certified childbirth educator come in from Bangor and work out of an office that they split in a time-share kind of arrangement with a podiatrist and a pediatrician. Patients from a fifty-mile radius come in for a range of health-care needs.

Doc is directly responsible for a third of Bell's Corners' population boom—not because of the babies he's delivered, but because of the patients who've followed him from Storybrooke, women who trust him not only with their own health but with their unborn babies'. Gold envies that level of trust, just a little. The patients especially favor his naturopathic approach, his gentle manner and his consideration for their comfort and privacy. They can talk to him frankly about any medical topic, from vaginal warts to STDs, and he will provide them all the information at his disposal, without judging the circumstances that led to their conditions. When demand for his services overloads his capacity, he brings in a newly minted OB/GYN from New York.

Doctors from Storybrooke Hospital wander in and out of the clinic all the time, consulting with their colleagues and taking training in herbalism from Blue and Gold. Some of those doctors don't wander back: gradually, Storybrooke, whose economy can no longer support as many medics, loses half of them to other towns, including Bell's Corners. Sometimes Gold takes a nasty satisfaction in Storybrooke's erosion, even though Dove or Emma or Belle reminds him he still has friends there who are adversely affected. When he feels guilty for gloating, he drops his old friends an email—and sometimes he attaches photos of the lake, or the clinic, or the expanded elementary school, or the park that's under construction, or the wilderness trail that Apple recently donated. "Always room for more" is how he likes to end these missives.

But now, he has a different sort of population expansion on his mind. No one would guess from looking at him that he's nervous: he's had so many years' practice in schooling his expression. Belle, however, is tapping her foot. He resists the temptation to seize that foot, tear off the shoe and plant kisses along her instep. . . .

"Belle, Rumple, let me start by putting your minds to rest: there is no medical reason why you haven't gotten pregnant yet." Doc pauses to allow them to release pent-up breath. "For healthy couples who are trying to conceive, the odds are, over the course of a year, almost 90% they'll succeed. Now, for most men, age is a factor, particularly for men over 50, but you hardly fit into the 'most men' category, Rumple. There's no way we can guess what effect all those years of magic may have had on your current longevity. All bets are out the window with you. But there's nothing in your health profile that indicates your chances of conceiving are any lower than any other man's. And Belle, if I could pick an ideal candidate for a successful, full-term pregnancy, you'd be our poster girl."

"So if it's not in our health, is it in the way we're. . .practicing?" Belle asks. "Frequency can't be the problem." She blushes.

"It could be in your timing. Belle, let me introduce you to your new daily companion: it's called a basal thermometer. . . ."

Belle whips out her Surface and begins to take notes. Gold listens, but his attention wanders to that array of photos on Doc's walls. Number twenty-one, he's sure of it. That spot on the western wall, which the mid-morning sun lights up, that's where his baby's photo will go. In a gold frame.

* * *

><p>Gold's finishing his dressing (jeans and a sweatshirt for the time being; tonight he'll climb into a suit). As always, he looks into the mirror over the sink as he shaves, but when he scrapes away the last patch of shaving cream, he doesn't immediately wash his face and walk away, as he always has before. Instead, he looks directly into his own eyes. He can't remember the last time he ever did that. Probably never. He's always avoided eye contact with his mirror image. Not today, though. He looks directly into his own eyes and smiles.<p>

Tonight he and Belle have an important dinner to attend: a rehearsal dinner. Tomorrow Josiah and Fran will tie the knot.

But it's going to be a busy day, so he reaches for his comb—and still looking into the mirror, he fumbles and the comb plops into the toilet. With a groan, he fishes it out with the scrub brush and dumps it into the trash can. He'll pick up a new comb when he gets the chance; for the time being, he borrows Belle's hairbrush. She isn't fussy about sharing such things. After he's tamed his flyaway mane, he replaces the hairbrush on the counter and tackles his toothbrush next.

Something flashes in the corner of his eye. He clenches the toothbrush between his teeth and glances down. What he sees makes him gape—and his toothbrush nearly falls into the toilet. He's able to rescue it in mid-fall; still, he gapes. Belle's hairbrush is glowing. Red, green, blue, yellow and violet lights dance across the bristles, twirl like figure skaters performing scratch spins. He drops his toothbrush in its cup and leans forward for a closer look at the hairbrush. It's the strands of hair, the auburn and the gray-brown hair, dancing above the bristles and throwing off rainbows, strands twining around each other, hers and his. He watches in amazement, and in the corner of his memory he hears an imp's soft giggle.

He holds his hand above the hairbrush. He feels heat rising, his skin tingling, his pores opening to receive energy, to receive power. He sucks in a breath. He's too fascinated with the display to think about what's happening or what he should or shouldn't do about it.

"Rumple!" Belle crashes in from the bedroom. When she reaches him, she's thrumming with excitement and she's thrusting a plastic tube under his nose. "Rumple! It's time!" She yanks at his shirt. "My temperature's peaked."

He drags his attention away from the hairbrush. There's a more urgent task at hand: yanking off his shirt, he follows Belle back to bed. Somewhere in the universe, a baby is waiting for its parents to call it into the world.

_Master Po: "All life is sacred. Thus the joining together of man and woman is always honored. Apart there is no life. But from such union, life may proceed."_

* * *

><p>Josiah bounces from foot to foot, not because he's nervous, but because his new dress shoes pinch. "I warned you," Gold growls. "Now hold still while I tie your tie."<p>

"It was just too weird not to," Dove protests. "How many guys in this world can say they own a pair of shoes made by the Loch Ness monster?"

"Not you. You do and people will call you Old Man Dove, that crazy git that lives on the hill."

"Still, it's the principle of the thing."

Gold exchanges a glance with Bae and shrugs. Bae changes the subject, "Are you nervous, Josiah?"

"Are you kiddin'? In an hour I'll be married to the sweetest gal in the state. And the best cook. Thanks for the honeymoon, Mr. G."

Gold is sending them to the Indy 500. During the two weeks they'll be gone, he will run the antique shop. He's kind of looking forward to it. It's in his comfort zone.

Bernadette raps on the door. "Ready, gentlemen?"

"Been ready for months," Dove tells her. To the strains of "Your Kiss is on My List," Jo and his groomsmen clatter down the backstairs of the church, to the sanctuary, where the minister and the guests wait. Half of Bell's Corners is here; so is a third of Storybrooke. As Gold links arms with Belle and begins the processional, he knows for sure that Fran and Jo didn't invite some of these Storybrookers. The nuns, of course; Ruby and Archie, yeah, and Tom and other FOR supporters, but not Miss Ginger and certainly not Sidney. They came for the food, he speculates. They'd better have brought a gift or they'll get a taste of cane along with the–Belle nudges him. Somehow the woman knows what he's thinking. He's going to have to ask her how. Or develop some acting chops.

He and Bae take their places alongside Dove; Belle and Emma wait on the bride's side. Dove's beaming, his sore feet forgotten; his happiness radiates across the congregation. On her son's arm–for her father is in a nursing home now, too far gone to recognize his daughter–Fran in a simple pale blue dress enters to the strains of "You Make My Dreams Come True" and the congregation stands. Gold's chest swells. He kind of feels responsible for this moment, because he had decided years ago to invest in a restaurant. And all because he had a yen for chocolate croissants. He's going to mention that, the next time Belle deprives him of dessert.

Despite their unusual choice of music, Jo and Fran exchange standard vows and rings, and after a lovely kiss, they're whisked to the pastor's office to sign the license while the guests are directed into the parish hall for the reception, the food catered from Persie's Place, the diner. A lot of dining, a little drinking and a bit of dancing to, exclusively, Hall & Oates (Gold finds it incongruous that "Maneater" and "I Can't Go for That" are included in a wedding celebration, but one can't read too much into Jo's taste in music. Gold has come to that conclusion after Fran, chuckling, informed the Golds that Jo had had the NASCAR theme song playing on his stereo when he proposed. Hall and Oates, she said, was a compromise: she had wanted Neil Diamond; Jo had wanted Conway Twitty.)

Gold is able to dance with Belle to four of the slower songs. After a year of tramping the planet, his ankle is strong, but he's still a bit protective of it. He doesn't want to risk an injury that would lay him up; he has a garden to tend, a charitable campaign to nurse, doctors to educate, and for the next two weeks, a shop to run.

Gold's no party animal, but these are his friends, so he stays for the entire event. Besides, Belle is having so much fun, and double besides, Persimmon has provided five kinds of ice cream to complement the chocolate groom's cake and the buttercream wedding cake. When they drive home that night, Belle asks, "Did you have a good time?" And to his surprise, Gold admits he did. "I seem to be having a good time most of the time," he muses, then he becomes thoughtful. "I'm thinking," he says without prodding—he finds it increasingly easy these days to express his emotions to Belle—"how different things could have been, if the three of us hadn't made the conscious decision to preserve our friendship above our pride."

Belle nods. "None of the past two years would have happened. I probably would have left Maine, gone off to Boston and got a job waiting tables. Jo probably would have wandered west and gone to work in a discount tire shop."

"And me, I'd still be wearing a hole in the wooden floor of the pawnshop, glaring every time my door opened—not that it would have, all that often. I might have found Bae on my own, but I doubt if I'd have been the kind of man he'd have welcomed back into his life. I would have tried to bribe or trick him, and he'd have slammed the door in my face. I'd have magic, but I'd have nothing that matters." He pauses. "What I'm saying, Belle, is I owe a lot to you and Josiah. Everything, in fact."

"We owe a lot to you too, darling. The choices you made in dealing with us—so many ways it all could have gone wrong, but you didn't let it. Working for you, I was so tempted, I would have allowed myself to be led into an affair, but you were honorable. When I became pregnant, you could have flown into a rage; you could have thrown me out or tore after Jo, and you certainly could have exposed the whole curse right then and there, to prove that it was you and me who were supposed to be together. But you treated me with as much tenderness as if the baby was yours, and after the curse broke, you would have found a way to make the situation work so Jo could be in Adelena's life. So we owe you, Rumple, and I plan to spend the rest of our lives remembering that." She leans forward as he suddenly pulls the Caddy to the side of the road. "Rumple? What's wrong?"

He leans his forehead against the steering wheel. And then he remembers he has Belle to lean on, so he seeks her shoulder and her arms. He's crying, aware how close he came to a life that was nearly identical to the one he lived in the Dark Castle, how easily one bad decision would have led him away from all that he has now, back to darkness, loneliness, fear of people, fear of his own emotions. "I planned everything to the smallest detail so that I could get Bae back. What I didn't plan on, but what you did for me anyway, was the most important part: I needed to change. You saved me."

"No, love, you saved yourself. What you have now, you never would have appreciated, if you hadn't changed. You would have driven us all away. But you welcomed me and Bae and your friends in, you fought yourself to keep us. You _earned_ us, and I'm so glad you gave us all the chance to be in your life. It breaks my heart to think of the love I would have missed out on, if you hadn't."

It's almost a full half-hour before Gold and Belle have collected themselves sufficiently to continue the drive home. Much later, when Belle is sound asleep, he stares at the ceiling and reflects on the strange phenomenon he witnessed when he borrowed Belle's hairbrush. He will tell her about it tomorrow; he doesn't withhold such important information from her any more. He knows what he witnessed. His skin still tingles just thinking about it, and a hunger fires his blood. He knows if he were to sneak back into the woods of Storybrooke, to the well that connects this world's waters to Lake Nostros, he could drop that hairbrush into the well and in an instant, change the world again. He could be the great sorcerer again.

He licks his lips as he imagines the things he could do for his wife and his children, if he had magic again. He sneers as he imagines transporting himself into Storybrooke City Hall, interrupting some high-level meeting between City Council and the royals, making some clever quip, then disappearing in a puff of smoke. Just to show them who he is, the chances they've taken by messing with him.

He permits himself this small fantasy. And then he kills it. Screw magic; he has everything he wants right now, and all of it _earned_. When he tells Belle about the strange phenomenon, he'll start by informing her he's not tempted, not much anyway. A man has no need of magic when he's learned how to live.

_Master Po: "He who knows how to live need not fear death. He can walk without fear of rhino or tiger. He will not be wounded in battle…. In him the rhino can find no place to thrust his horn, the tiger no place to use his claws, and weapons no place to pierce…. Because a man who knows how to live has no place for death to enter."_


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter 54

Fascinated, yet dubious, Belle touches the handle of her hairbrush as she examines the entwined hairs dancing and casting off beams of color. "I feel. . . It's like sticking your finger in a light socket. All of a sudden my stomach's queasy." She jerks her hand away. Still watching the strands of hair dance, she wonders, "What does it feel like for you?"

He thinks for a moment. "Like if you went for a week without a drop of water and then someone gave you a bottle of Chateau Margaux 2009." He smiles ruefully. "And no corkscrew."

"Your eyes are different." She points at his image in the mirror. She's right: his eyes are larger, amber with narrow vertical slits instead of pupils.

"Crap." He steps away from the sink and watches in the mirror as his eyes immediately transform back into the familiar round, earthy brown pair.

Belle touches the bristles, then peers into the mirror. "Why doesn't it affect me? Except to make me queasy."

He shrugs. "I guess it's like why some people get drunk on a single glass and some people aren't affected at all. I'm the single-glass type; you're not. And my body is more attuned to it, since I lived inside magic every minute of my life for four hundred years."

"Let's get out of here. I'm starting to feel a migraine coming on." She takes his hand and leads him downstairs to the kitchen, where she opens windows to let in fresh air. Arms crossed, he leans against the refrigerator, staring at the polished wooden floor.

Belle sits down at the table. She begins to speak, and from the look in her eye, he expects instruction: she's decided what should be done and she's about to tell him. But then she closes her mouth and scrubs at a smudge on the table. "What do you think you'll do?"

He gives her a grateful smile. She's tamped down the impulse to guide him; he suspects that whatever he decides in this life-changing choice, she'll back him up–whether she agrees or not. Fortunately, they're likely to be in accord. "Nothing. Except to ask you to throw that brush out–the less I handle it, the better."

"Is that what you want to do?"

"No. Yes." He lifts up from the fridge. "I wish I didn't have to deal with this."

"The last time, you thought you had to have magic to get Bae back. This time, you don't have that desperation."

"Not at the moment, but the first problem that I don't have a ready answer for, I'd be reaching for the magic. I'd fall right back into that hole. And Bae, he'd run again, take Henry and Emma, and he'd be right. And you'd be living with a monster again."

"Or we'd find that you're still the generous, caring man you are now, just with magic at his disposal. In this world, money is power too; you use your money for good. Why wouldn't it be the same with magic?"

"Money doesn't get under my skin and into my blood. I don't dream money; I don't breathe it. Money doesn't make me feel like God Almighty."

Belle sucks in a breath. "You're right. I have to dispose of that brush. I'll pick up a new one tomorrow."

As she starts back upstairs, he adds, "One positive thing, though: only true love could produce a chemical reaction like that."

She grins at him.

* * *

><p>That night as they crawl into bed, she snuggles against his shoulder. "I know how hard that decision must have been."<p>

"Yeah."

"I'm proud of you."

* * *

><p>Blue's got that look in her eye again. He knows it well: she's going to ask for something that she thinks he won't want to give, but that he will be better off for giving. "I suppose you heard the news last night: the poverty rate in Storybrooke is almost as high as California's."<p>

He's tempted to throw out a claim of disinterest, but that would be a lie: a dozen of his old friends still live there, still struggle to keep the town and themselves afloat. He tells her what she already knows: "Treadle's doing as much as it can to build a new economic base of small businesses—"

"You can do more," she interrupts. "I know you funnel a significant percentage of your personal wealth into that organization, and believe me, it's appreciated. But you can do a little more, at no real cost to you."

He sticks his trowel into the earth and leans back on his knees. He'll have to stand up soon; his ankle's aching from the cold and damp ground. But he really wanted to finish weeding this row first. . . .

"Give us the pawnshop."

He cocks his head. "Whatever for? It's just an empty building."

"Exactly. You haven't been able to sell it; you're getting taxed on property you can't use. So why not give it to us? Bernadette and Cecilia and I. We'll make it a clothing thrift store. Rumple, you know how cold it gets—"

"Yes."

"—in Storybrooke. Six months out of the year, people need winter clothes, coats, boots, gloves—"

"Yes."

"And kids, how can they have a feeling of self-worth when they're wearing rags to school? And the elderly—"

"Blue! Will you listen a minute? I said yes."

She starts laughing. "I knew you would. You're a good man, Rumplestiltskin."

"Now there's a sentence that no one ever would have guessed would come out of the Ruel Ghorm's mouth. And here's another: Blue, you're right. That building's a white elephant to me. Take it. In fact, I'm sure the family would be happy to help you clean it up." He picks up his trowel. "I would too, if entering my own building wasn't against the law. An empty building is an invitation to vandals and rodents, so you'll be doing everyone a favor."

* * *

><p>He's brushing his teeth at the "his" sink as she unpacks the toiletries she bought at the grocery. He hears a cupboard door slam and turns to find Belle covering her face with one hand; in the other is the blue box she bought today. He gets to her just in time as she drops the box and breaks into tears. He takes her into his arms, rubbing her back and speaking assurances, kissing her damp cheeks, but when he glances down at the box and recognizes the brand name, he understands her bitter tears. The fact that she had to make this purchase yet again means that they've failed. He can't fix this and he can't cheer her. They will just have to deal with it as a couple, as they have been.<p>

"Fifteen months," she moans. "We've been trying for fifteen months."

He runs his hands up and down her back, saying for the hundredth or five hundredth time, "We just have to keep trying. There _is_ a baby coming to us; I believe it. We just have to keep trying."

"Maybe it's time to adopt." When he goes still, she backs out his embrace so that she can see his face clearly. "There are lots of children needing a home. It doesn't matter who gave the child birth; we'd love him just the same. He would be ours from the first time we held him."

"Yes, of course we would."

"It doesn't have to be an infant. I've worked on enough adoption cases with you to know how long that wait can be. Maybe a three-year-old, a six-year-old. We'd love him just as much. We have so much to give, Rumple. It's not fair!"

"No, it's not fair." He rubs her arms soothingly. "Sweetheart, you know why we can't adopt."

"I don't care. I'd lie my butt off if it meant we'd get a baby." They've discussed this: how could they explain to an adoption agency who they really are and where they came from?

"I can't, Belle. It wouldn't be just us that would have to lie. The investigators are thorough. Bae would be questioned, Emma, Josiah, maybe even Henry. One little slip and we'd be prosecuted. Even if we managed to slip through–I'm sorry; I can't let us start our family on a lie."

"Why are we being punished, Rumple?"

He turns away from her, leans on the basin.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. It's not your fault, darling. You're a changed man; this isn't punishment for the things you did. I'm just so damn angry! It's so unfair!"

"We'll talk to Doc again, ask for more tests—"

"We've had two rounds of tests. There's nothing wrong with us." She scrapes her hands through her hair. "All right. We'll talk to him about in vitro." She picks up the blue box and shoves it into a cupboard. "I'll start dinner."

When she's gone, he sits on the edge of the bathtub. Your body and your mind are not in harmony—that was Won-Que's theory. Gods, Gold had never thought he'd see the day when he'd be discussing his own infertility problems with another man, let alone a monk. The absurdity should make him laugh. So what's that moisture clinging to his eyelashes?

* * *

><p>"Hey, Pop. Morning, Belle." The kitchen door swings open and the young family bursts in. Instead of the usual pastries, they're carrying Fran's Fresh and Fast bags; Bae unpacks biodegradable containers as Emma makes a beeline to the coffee pot. Henry is hopping about and Belle thinks she can guess why: "Is your report card in, Henry?"<p>

"Can I tell them? Please!" Henry seems to have forgotten he's a teenager, soon old enough for his learner's permit.

"Nope," Bae says. "Since it was your mom's decision, she should be the one." He opens the first container and shows the contents to his father. "Eggs Benedict!"

"Oh, yum," Belle leans over Bae's shoulder to help unpack. "Fruit cups. Hash browns. Mmmm."

"And," with a flourish of his hand, Bae produces a bottle of champagne. "Voila!"

"What are we celebrating?" Gold fetches silverware from the drawer. "Must be big."

"Well, isn't somebody going to tell them?" Henry demands, dropping into his usual seat.

Emma sips her coffee and winks. "We're going to make them guess. Let's find out how observant your grandparents are."

Henry groans and reaches for a plate.

"Hmm. New car?" Gold guesses.

"Going on a vacation?" Belle guesses.

"You're getting warmer." Emma taps her fingers against her coffee cup and a metallic sound rings out.

"The Caribbean?" Emma's often daydreamed about a trip to Barbados.

"That's part of it," Emma admits. "Gee, Golds, I've always thought of the two of you as real smart. Keep guessing." Her fingers tap harder against the ceramic mug.

"A new deal with Apple?" Gold tries.

"Nope." Bae finishes dishing out the breakfast. "Come on, everybody, sit down and eat."

As chairs scrape across the floor, Henry bursts, "Belle! What do think of Mom's new nail polish?"

"I'm not wearing—" Emma shakes a finger at her son. "You're violating our agreement, young man. Maybe not the letter of the law, but—"

Belle squeals and grabs the shaking finger, then the whole hand. "Emma! Oh my gods, Emma, you finally said yes!" Dragging Bell's Corners' newest deputy behind her, Belle thrusts the captured hand under Gold's nose. "Look!"

Gold stares, uncertain what he's supposed to notice. Emma's definitely not wearing nail polish; in fact, she has a hangnail and a streak of dirt under—"Emma!" Gold jumps to his feet and his cane clatters to the floor. He grabs the deputy and yanks her in for a hug while Belle is throwing her arms around Bae. Shouts of "Congratulations" and "About time" fill the room.

"Hey, how about some props for the man who made this happen?" Henry stretches his arms out. "I'll take your hugs now, please. Line forms to the right. One at a time, no pushing."

"Yeah," Bae confesses. "He's been my chief salesman, singing my praises every chance he got. I owe you one, buddy."

"Well, there was plenty to sing about." Emma wraps her arms around her fiance's waist.

As his grandparents congratulate his achievement, Henry feigns modesty. "Selling Dad was the easy part. Selling marriage, that was hard."

"I mean, I know it works for my parents and you guys. . . .and the Doves and the Bells and the Nesmiths and Ruby and Archie. . . hmm." Emma ponders. "Well, I guess the odds aren't so bad after all. Anyway, I figure we've done all right so far; I guess we can go the distance."

"Welcome to the family, Emma," Gold offers. "Although you always were a part of it."

"I'm going to hyphenate, like you did," Emma tells Belle. "Swan-Gold. I like it."

"So, who's up for another wedding?" Bae claps his hands.

* * *

><p>As they themselves are, the Swan-Golds' wedding is unconventional. It's held on the Lake of Three Fires on the first day of summer, at sunrise, with the women in beach sundresses and picture hats, the men in white three-piece suits. Queen Snow officiates and Charming walks his daughter down the aisle. Henry and Gold are groomsmen; Ruby and Belle are bridesmaids.<p>

The music, except for Wagner's "Bridal Chorus," is reggae. First Hall and Oates, now Bob Marley. Gold wonders about these modern kids. One of these days, he's going to have to offer a class in selecting proper wedding music. But when it comes to his son's selection of spouse, there's no doubt in his mind, as he informs the bride when it's his turn to dance with her. "I couldn't imagine a better partner for Bae," he whispers in Emma's ear. "It's exactly as it was meant to be."

She whispers back, "Thanks, Rumple."


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter 55

As a wedding gift, Gold had taken Bae aside and offered to pay for the honeymoon, but Bae had surprised him. "Thanks, Pop, that's a fantastic gift, but, the thing is, I want to do it myself, as my gift to Emma. See, when we were together the first time, we used to daydream about places we'd like to go. We'd go into public libraries and flip through the travel books, and we found this one with color photos of Barbados. Emma was knocked out by it. I promised her someday I'd take her there, and now I am. I've been saving up; ever since I moved to Storybrooke, I started saving, because I knew I'd marry her someday. So thanks, but no; I hope you're cool with that."

"I get it, son. Nothing made me happier than to be able to make Belle's daydream happen. What would you like as a wedding gift from us?"

Bae had grinned. "Thanks for asking, Pop. What we really need is a place for Henry to stay while we're gone. David and Snow would do it, but then we'd have to take Henry out of school for those two weeks."

And that's how it happened that Belle and Gold got a taste of parenting a teenager.

First there's the sheer mass of stuff that comes along with a boy moving in for two weeks–and that's even with having ready access to his own house, just two miles away. The clothes alone take an entire trunk: since he's in sports, Henry needs three changes of clothes a day: his classroom clothes, his baseball uniform and his pajamas.

The first time she washes Henry's clothes, Belle finds something in his hamper that's completely foreign to her, a stretchy contraption with a Fruit of the Loom label. She brings it to Gold: "What is this? Should I put it in the washer?"

"Beats me. We didn't have such things in my day." He holds it up for examination, turning it around and around until. . . "I think it's a codpiece." When she looks more confused, he clarifies, "Underwear."

Belle looks doubtful. "It doesn't offer much coverage, does it?"

"Maybe it's the male version of a thong." Gold shudders, imagining wearing such a contraption himself.

Belle has her bedroom smile on; she's imaging the same thing. "No, Belle, don't ask: I'm sticking with boxers."

She looks disappointed. "Well, what's that pocket in the front for?"

With as straight a face as he can muster, Gold suggests, "Car keys?"

She punches his shoulder. "You're not helping. What should I do with it?"

"Well. . . I'll just go ask Henry. Man to man." He squares his shoulders and with a kiss as his token, proceeds like a knight into battle.

He's back in five minutes, red-faced; he drops the contraption into the laundry basket.

"Did you find out what it is?" Belle asks. He just nods. "What's it for?"

"Just wash it with the whites."

"At least tell me what it's called. Rumple! If we're going to be parents, I need to know these things."

"We'll just make sure our son joins the chess club. Just remembered: gotta water the garden." Gold rushes off.

* * *

><p>Then there's the case full of toiletries: smelly ointments, messy creams for zits; antiperspirant, aftershave (Henry doesn't have a whisker; he just wants girls to think he does). Everything but toothpaste: he forgot to pack that, so Henry takes Gold's. He squeezes it from the middle and leaves the cap off. Naturally.<p>

* * *

><p>Then there's the electronics. Henry comes complete with enough gadgets to start his own mad-scientist lab. Gold helps him carry it all in, but when they have all that equipment spread out on the bedroom floor, it's like a snake pit of wires. "Help me hook it up, Grandpa?"<p>

"Sure." Gold picks up something that has a hole in it and starts trying out various wires, looking for a piece that will fit the hole.

"No, that goes with the X-Box."

"Oh. Of course." Gold picks up something that looks like a wing and searches for a hole to plug a wire into.

"No, that goes with the Wii."

Gold sets the wing aside. Now here's something he understands: a guitar. Except apparently Henry got mad at it one day and tore off the strings (so the lad's inherited the Stilitskin temper, eh?). Gold tries, to no avail, to plug the guitar into something, anything. Before Henry can tell him he's wrong again and the guitar goes with the ScrewYou, Gold clambers to his feet. "Just remembered, gotta water the garden," he mumbles.

* * *

><p>And then there's the phone, Henry has only one, but he has a different ring tone for each friend, and he has a lot of friends. Worse, the ring tones don't ring, like a sensible phone does: they whistle or sing or chirp like electronic birds or crack like baseball bats hitting a homer. Gold's house fills with sounds that make him feel like he's fallen through a portal to Wonderland. The ring tones fill his dreams with creepy noises. Gold walks around his house like a soldier walking through a landmine field, until at last he limits Henry's phone usage to two hours a day.<p>

* * *

><p>What he gains in release from the ring tones, he loses to knocking. Girls start showing up at his door, asking for Henry: some at least pretend to have homework with them, but a few have come to very boldly ask Henry out. There's a coffee shop the teens in town have confiscated as their own, even those who, like Henry, are too young to drink coffee: the ambiance–amateur guitarists playing Pete Seeger songs, coffee aromas, murals of South American bean fields–is attraction enough. Parents permit their kids to spend evenings here: the owner discreetly reports to parents any major infractions.<p>

As Gold discovers, the night he's called about Henry. "Uhm, Mr. Gold, do you know where your car is?"

Gold's mouth goes dry as he walks out onto his porch. "Cy, what are you in your not so subtle way referring to?" He looks toward the garage: the door is open.

"I take it you don't know then: the Caddy is here." _The_ Caddy: it's the only one in town. Henry's vanity's overwhelmed his intelligence: if he'd taken Belle's nondescript Honda, he might have gotten away with it.

"Thanks, Cy." Gold pokes his head back into the house. "Going for a walk, Belle."

"Okay, honey."

He could borrow the Honda, but walking to the coffee shop gives Gold time to reason with himself. He reflects on all the ways Bae screwed up as a kid: well, they were too poor for Bae to do anything this big. He reflects on the war stories he's heard from other parents. He makes a mental list of all the things teens get into: drugs, drinking, breaking and entering. This is small potatoes by comparison; still, it's borderline larceny. "Ah, Henry, you're on my watch. Why couldn't it have been _Playboys_ under your mattress?"

By the time he gets to the coffee shop, he's calm. He has a plan. He knows a reasonable punishment to impose. He will walk in, taking on his old Dark One face to scare the kids, but he'll speak slowly, coolly, not embarrass Henry, just remove him from the scene before imposing punishment.

He throws the coffee shop door open. "HENRY MILLS SWAN GOLD! Get you ass out here now! You're in Big Trouble, young man!"

Gold's second mistake: he doesn't give Henry a chance to obey (or recover his poise after being yelled at in front of friends). Gold storms over to the couch where Henry is sitting with two girls and another boy; he yanks Henry up by the arm and hauls him toward the exit as the girls giggle and the boy speculates that "it must be time for Widdle Henwy's diaper change."

Gold realizes then he's screwed up, but he's too angry to apologize just yet and Henry's too angery to listen to an apology. So they stomp back home, and Henry runs into his bedroom and slams the door, and Gold hovers outside, shifting from foot to foot as he alternately decides to barge in and yell some more—or apologize; he's not sure which would be effective—or walk off until they've both calmed down. When Belle, puzzled, approaches, Gold growls, "Gotta water the garden" and bangs out the kitchen door.

Henry doesn't speak to him for a week. He obediently accepts his punishments of cleaning and repainting the garage (the garage is only a couple of years old and doesn't need painting, but that fact serves to remind Henry this chore is a punishment), but he glares when Gold tries to start a conversation. Gold goes out to tend the garden so he won't yell at Henry, and so Henry won't see he's hurt.

Belle has a heart-to-heart with each of "her boys," separately, and they mumble apologies, and Gold says, "Yankees game on tonight," and Henry says, "Can we order pizza," and when Emma Skypes in later that night, Henry reports he's having a great time and Gold reports Henry's been doing his homework and helping around the house.

When Bae and Emma, sunburnt and tired, come for Henry and his clothes and computers and pimple cream, Gold grabs the boy for a hug, and Henry hugs him back. "Thanks, Belle. Thanks, Grandpa. You guys are the coolest." Gold knows Henry means it, and he means it when he answers, "Come back anytime."

"I know we made some mistakes with him," Belle reflects as they wave goodbye.

"Thanks for the 'we,'" Gold says. "But the mistakes were all mine."

"Don't be hard on yourself. I think you did very well. It must be so much harder to raise a teenager now than when you raised Bae; the technologies provide too many ways for kids to get into trouble."

"Got that right. If Bae had wanted to go joy riding, he would have had to steal a sheep. Our village was so poor no one owned a horse."

"All in all, I think we did okay, and we'll do better when it's our own child. Rumple. . . I still want a baby," Belle proclaims.

"Me too. Just not a teenage one," Gold says.

Gold's garden has gotten a _lot_ of water in those two weeks.

* * *

><p>That hairbrush is stuck in his mind. Well, who <em>wouldn't <em>be obsessed with the possibility of acquiring (in his case, reacquiring) power surpassing that of any mortal man? It doesn't matter how many times he reminds himself he can't have both his family and his power, or how often he measures his current happiness against that of any other time in his life. He stands his memory of his wedding to Belle against the day he led the children of his village home from war. Choose, he demands of himself. The wedding march or the homeward march? He stands his memory of sitting in Yankee Stadium with Henry, Bae and Dove against the day his enchantment of Ruth's ring led Charming to Snow White. Which would he keep?

He _knows_ where happiness lies, and yet his body craves, yearns for, was born for magic.

He tells Archie about the hairbrush.

"Wow," Archie exclaims. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. The same ingredients that made magic in the first place still exist in this world."

"Yeah."

"I guess the first question should be 'Why?' What do you need that only magic can do for you?"

"It's my destiny. Just as you were born to counsel people and Charming was born to rescue them, I was born to make magic. "

"Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"The world needs rescuers and counselors. Why do we need sorcerers?"

"For the same reason we need music and art and literature. To inspire, to feed the imagination, to inform and nourish the soul."

"Not to give one man the power to turn people into quaking globs of jelly. Or to enable one woman to make an entire town drop to its knees."

"That's what magic does to some of us. Not all."

"Perhaps. But I recall that for the so-called 'good' users, magic made them judgmental, unforgiving–and those qualities make a person unloving."

"You think I made the right decision then about the brush."

"It doesn't matter what I think. What do you think? And how do you feel?"

"Confused. It used to seem so simple. I wanted protection from bullies, I wanted to provide for my family, I wanted my son back. Answer: magic."

"You have healthier ways to accomplish those goals. Maybe you've outgrown magic."

"I like that thought. It puts me, not magic, in the driver's seat."

"Which brings us back to your question: can magic take a back seat in your life? It's already a crowded car you're driving: family, friends, a town. Who would you kick out of the car to make room for magic?"

"No one."

"There you go."

"But with magic I could conjure a bigger car."

"Rumple. . . ." Archie sighs. "Yeah, but are you strong enough to wrest the wheel away? Because you know the Dark One will seize it from you."

"That's what I'm asking. But what I hear you telling me is, if the answer was yes, I wouldn't be asking the question."

"So what do you think about the choice you made?"

"I think I did the smart thing. Not the fun thing, but the smart thing."

"Well, look at it this way: you can now get on with the business of living, and that's a nice business to be in."

* * *

><p>In her old flannel shirt and frayed jeans, with a bucket full of rags in one hand, her keys in the other and a broom under her arm, she looks just as she did in the old days, when she was Belinda Dove, come to clean Mean Mr. Gold's pink house on the hill. Except, he reminds himself, that's his ring on her finger, that's his kiss that's swollen her lips, that's his chest she's admiring. She drops the bucket. "One more try before I go?" Her free hand slides under his shirt.<p>

"I think I can–" But the kitchen door bangs open. "Belle, you ready? Let's hit the road."

Belle picks up her bucket. "All right. We'll probably get back around six."

"I'll have dinner waiting."

He sends her off with a last kiss. While she, the Doves and the Swan-Golds assist the nuns in converting the pawn shop into a clothes giveaway station, he will spend the day serving antiquers. At noon he'll stroll over to Persie's, where Persimmon Plockton will have the daily special and this week's issue of the _BC_ _Chimes_ ready for him. He'll keep busy enough.

Still, he's grumpy. It's not his bad ankle that's preventing him from working alongside the family: it's his bad behavior from long ago, for which he'll be answering all the rest of his life. But he has to admit, he has nothing to complain about. He's only forbidden from one town; he was left the rest of the world to play in, and he has. So he slips a copy of _Fodor's Disneyland with Kids_ (because although he's not Rumplestiltskin any longer, he's still a long-range planner) into his pocket, picks up his cane and walks to work.

* * *

><p>"No, ma'am, that's not a popcorn popper; it's a bed warmer. It belonged to an apothecary in Rochester. I haven't been able to verify its origins, but from the emblem on the back, I think it was manufactured–"<p>

His cell phone begins to ring with Belle's ring tone. She hadn't planned to call. Nervous, he excuses himself from the customers; a moment later, he's back with them, excusing himself again. "Folks, I'm going to have to close now. Family emergency."

The customers accept the explanation and wish him well. He follows them out, then flags down Sheriff Wolf. "Can you take me to my house so I can pick up my car?" At Wolf's nod, he jumps into the passenger seat. "There's been an accident. It's Emma."

Wolf barks an expletive. "Forget your car. I'll take you. Where we going?"

"Storybrooke General Hospital."

Wolf glances at him, then guns the squad car engine.

"Just drop me off at home. You could lose your job if you take me into Storybrooke."

"I don't think so. That's my deputy in trouble. What happened?"

Considering the risk Wolf is taking, Gold can't lie to him, but the sheriff is a down-to-earth, salt-of-the-earth man: this truth won't fly with him. "She got exposed to some hazardous chemicals. She's unconscious."

"F–."

As they pass the Gold house, Gold makes a snap decision. "Stop! Wait. I have something that could help her." He leaps out of the car, leaving the door open; in a minute he's back, slamming the door. "Let's go."

Wolf wheels onto the highway. "What is that?" He glances at Gold's lap. "Is that a hairbrush?"

"I'll explain later." Gold hesitates for just a moment, then, to Wolf's amazement, he begins to brush his hair.

The gray-brown strands are glowing and dancing around the auburn ones by the time Wolf parks the squad car in the visitors' lot at Storybrooke General. Wolf glances at the brush, but he doesn't really notice what's happening; his mind now is focused on the hospital staff. "Emma Gold! Which room?"

An orderly begins to stop him, but Wolf flashes his badge. "Yes, sir. Room 314A. I'll take you."

Other hospital staff take note of Wolf's companion, and phones are picked up, security guards are summoned. In 314A, civilians stand off to the side of the room as medics work over the unconscious patient. The nuns are praying with Bae, Charming and Snow.

A man Gold doesn't recognize is offering comfort to the queen and her consort; the man wears a crisp uniform with the sheriff's badge pinned to the pocket. This new sheriff leaves the queen to investigate the newcomers. Wolf nudges his way past the dwarfs and offers a handshake to the Storybrooke sheriff. "Sheriff Ian Wolf, Scotsman County. She's my deputy."

That's all he needs to say. The local sheriff accepts the handshake. "Richard Grayson. Deputy Swan is a hero here; we're doing all we can for her. She was in the deserted pawnshop on Gold Way when she collapsed, fell into unconsciousness. That was an hour ago. They haven't been able to revive her."

Charming spies Gold standing behind Wolf. "What are you doing here? Sheriff, this man–"

Snow interrupts. "This man is family. He can stay." She glares at her husband, who is about to protest, then grabs Gold's sleeve. "Help her."

Gold's mouth opens and closes uselessly.

Whale, a silver box in his hand, breaks away from the other medics and comes to Snow's side. He shows Gold the silver box. "Emma was holding this snuff box when the ambulance arrived."

"It came from a locked drawer in my workroom." Gold can't face Snow. "I thought I'd disposed of it. I took it from a pirate I defeated in a swordfight."

"What's this black, oily stuff inside? We found a smudge of it on Emma's fingertip."

Gold's mouth twitches. "Dreamshade."

"Never heard of it."

"Exclusive to Neverland."

"Toxic?"

Gold nods.

"Antidote?"

"I have a spell that I think will work. Not sure; I didn't get to the testing stage."

"Oh please. . . ." Snow begs.

Now he looks her in the eye. "It requires magic."

"Then we're lost." Snow falls into David's arms.

A powerful memory stirs in Gold's imagination as he hears a child's voice from the past: "Papa, help her. Use your magic!" In his mind's eye he sees the fourteen-year-old Bae kneeling at the bedside of his friend Morraine. All it takes is the slow movement of the Dark One's hand across the girl's body: the ogre bite wounds on her legs vanish, the claw marks on her chest disappear. "There, there, sweet girl, get some sleep now, eh?"

That boy's voice comes back to him now as a man's. "Pop, can't you do something?"

A hand squeezes his wrist and a voice whispers into his ear, "Do it." Belle walks around from behind him, draws his head toward hers and whispers, "You brought my new brush."

"I intended to–I'm not sure–"

"It's working." She lifts his hand and they admire the colors sparkling around the bristles. "There's no choice."

"Francoise! Go back to the shop. Behind the Sherwood Forest landscape–"

"I know the one." Fran is already in the hallway.

"Combination is left 42, right 39, left 12. Get the Golden Fleece, bring it back here."

"You got it, Rumple!"

"Josiah," Gold calls out. "I need a ride. Blue, will you come?"

As Gold, Dove, Blue and Belle start for the elevator, Bae calls after them. "Pop! Whatever you're doing, good luck, huh? And hurry."


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter 56

_Caine: "Faced with two evils, must not every man choose?"_

"There's no choice," Belle reminds him as they peer over the lip of the Wishing Well. A rush of cold, moist wind gushes up from the river below and wets their faces.

Gold looks to his companions to supply the certainty he can't muster. Now that the opportunity has arrived, he searches his feelings and realizes that all those times he told himself he was happy without magic, didn't want it screwing up his life any more–he was right. He wants to give the brush to Belle and tell her to use it only for its intended purpose.

"You have to," Blue is saying. He told her about the brush on the drive up here; she fell silent, offering no advice, passing no judgment. "At least, we know now how to make the magic go away. After Emma has recovered—"

"After Emma's recovered, I'll find another crisis. An excuse to keep the magic," Gold says blackly. "Anyway, I'm not sure I can cast a magic-breaking spell again. The ingredients may not be available." When Belle and Blue look puzzled, he elucidates: "I'm not sure my hair mixed with Regina's would produce True Hate again."

Belle's mouth turns up in one corner, but she makes no remark, saving him the embarrassment of admitting he no longer hates Regina.

"We have a savior to save," Blue gently reminds them. How odd those words sound, coming from a nun's mouth. She now folds her hands in prayer.

"I don't want to be a monster again," he argues.

"You're a good man," Belle insists. "Magic won't change that."

"We won't let you fall," Blue assures him.

How quickly they've forgotten the Dark One.

Dove waits silently and patiently at the base of the well. When Gold looks to him for approval, he smiles. There's no sight quite as incongruous, and as inspiring, as when the six-foot-six, I-could-crush-you-with-my-pinkie-finger Josiah Dove smiles.

Gold visualizes Emma in that hospital bed. He knows what Dreamshade will do to the human body; her death will be drawn-out and painful, but it will most certainly come. Henry, motherless; Bae, robbed of his beloved so soon after recovering her. Belle is right: there's no choice. Gold drops the brush into the well.

A mushroom cloud of purple smoke billows out and engulfs the three, then spreads like a DDT blanket across the well, the clearing, the woods, rolling over farms and highways, rolling over Storybrooke, rising from ground-level into the sky. It hovers there, thinning gradually through the next three days, until all that's left are the photos the citizens took with their phones and Ipads.

By order of the queen, none of these photos will be shared beyond the city limits. By order of the queen, Gold and Blue will institute a communication block that will prohibit any reference to magic from leaking out of town; they will also institute a tweaked border block: other than the natives of Fairytale Land, anyone passing through Storybrooke will leave it with vague memories of having spent a rather dull time in a nice, ordinary town. Their strongest memories will be of the bubblegum pink and baby blue buildings, or Granny's hopped-up lasagna.

At the well, the trio starts back down the path to the car. Belle phones in. "Still breathing," she informs her husband. "Blood pressure's low. Vomiting and joint pain."

"Ah, hell, what am I thinking?" Gold growls. "We don't have to walk. Everybody, freeze." He waves his hand and in a blink they're back in Room 314A.

"My gods, what did you do?" Snow gasps.

"The fleece," he calls, and Fran lays it in his arms. He lays it over Emma. Her skin is so cold, but the magic of the fleece warms her blood.

"Pop!" Bae nudges the hospital staff aside. "Make room. Let my dad in."

Gold stares down into the pale face. The girl's long hair is splayed across the pillow. Purple shadows underline her closed eyes. Her lips are parted, breath flowing faintly in and out. So small, so young, so deserving of a second chance, just like Morraine. Gold picks up her wrist, detaches the heart monitor from her finger. Beneath his thumb he feels the life fluttering through her veins. With his free hand, he summons the magic.

It punches him in the gut. He staggers, Bae's hand shoots out to steady him, and he begins again, his teeth rattling, his entire body shuddering as the power overtakes him. Before he loses it or loses himself to it, he enchants the fleece, granting it the power to absorb the poison that his magic is leeching from Emma's bloodstream.

His hand floats over the fleece. The skin of his hand turns gold and scaly. His fingernails become claws. The magic has full possession of him. Red thoughts, blood thoughts, fill his mind. He can do anything that tickles his fancy. He can be anything-King of Storybrooke, Emperor of the World. He can crunch their veins in his rotten teeth, make them kneel until their knees break, rip out their hearts. Regina: he'll start with Regina, put her in a dungeon for thirty years! Belle will have justice, Belle will. . . .

He glances at Belle. She's smiling, shining with pride. At him. Doesn't she _see _him?

After Regina, he'll toss Charming into a cold, damp mine; conveniently, there's one on the south edge of town. Throw in some hay–used hay–that's your bed now, princeling! Give him rats as companions. Feed him gruel and maggots. Rancid water. Put his wife in a tower and tell him she died at the hands of priests cleansing her soul. Rumple will have justice.

After Charming, Blue. Send her by tornado to a foreign land where she doesn't speak the language and has no money. Let her sleep in alleys, beg for pennies, steal rags from clotheslines to cover her unwashed body, eat from garbage cans.

He glances at Blue. She's praying the Rosary and ignoring the tears running into her mouth. He will make her feel Bae's fear and loneliness. Except, he's remembering the sound of her laughter at the lame jokes he sprinkles into their plant medicine classes. He's remembering her devoted attentiveness in his lab as he taught her basic chemistry. He's remembering her patience, standing beside him at the town line as they tested the boundary spell over and–no, but she's responsible for Bae's loss.

Bae will have justice, Bae will. . . .

He glances at Bae, who's staring at Emma rapturously. "Pop, you did it. Thank the gods, you did it. Thank you." He follows Bae's gaze to those sharp blue eyes snapping open. Emma's head shifts on the pillow and she groans loudly. "Aw, crap on a cracker! What the f– happened?" the angel inquires. "How the hell did I get here?"

Bae beams at her, lays a proud hand on his father's shoulder. "My pop just saved the savior. Not too shabby, huh, babe?"

Emma smiles at Rumple, not one of her everyday guarded smiles, not one of her within-the-family teasing smiles, not one of her gloating I-got-the-last-bagel smiles. Just a grateful smile. She pulls his face down and kisses his cheek.

A flash of magic bursts forth from Emma's lips. It fills the room; it fills his senses.

It's gone when Emma opens her eyes. "Thanks, Gold."

He's not Gold now; he's Rumplestiltskin. Doesn't she see _him_? Why isn't she recoiling in disgust?

His magic vibrates through his entire body, but at a different pitch than before: slower, softer. He listens for the voice of rage and anxiety that pushed and prodded him for three hundred years, but it's gone. Instead, in the recesses of his mind, he's hearing memories. _"Papa, come play hide and seek with me!" "How about a game of dominoes, Mr. G.?" "You're not a monster." _"Tuck me in, Papa?" "Grandpa, can we stop at Amy's?" _"Thank you for my library, Rumple! It's the most wonderful gift anyone's ever given me." "Happy birthday, Mr. G.! Bindy baked a cake for you." "I love you, Papa." "I love you, Grandpa." "I love you, Rumple."_

Colors sharpen; the sunlight through the blinds brightens. He can smell Bae's aftershave, Snow's perfume, antiseptic, the bacon Charming had for breakfast. For several minutes, Gold's senses are on overload, and then, like a light dimmer being adjusted, the world settles back into natural state.

Bae ducks his head closer to his wife's, kisses her soundly, then babbles the full explanation as the medics try to work around him, taking the patient's vitals.

_Master Po: "Be like the mirror. Allow no evil to pass through you. Reflect it to its source."_

Rumple steps back. He doesn't feel red any more, just queasy. He fades back, trying to pull himself together. Something had him in its grip, some beast, eating him from the inside out, squeezing his heart like Cora would a captive's, seeping into his brain like a poison Hook would have concocted, wheedling him with words both flattering and condemning, like Zoso had done. The dark parasite seems to have fled. Or perhaps it's hidden itself, submerged into his brain as the Dark One used to do, to whisper and taunt when opportunities for mayhem arose.

As a test, he calls a flicker of magic forward. If he's lucky, nothing will happen. That expenditure of power in saving Emma will have used all the magic he had, or maybe the savior's kiss will have freed him.

He's not lucky. In answer to his command, a vase full of daisies appears on Emma's nightstand, along with a card: Optimus Prime in a nurse's cap with the caption "Wishing you a speedy transformation." Cheesy, but she once said her favorite cartoon as a kid was _The Transformers._

"Rumple." So many emotions, all of them pleasant, tumble in Belle's voice as she breathes his name. She wraps her arms around his neck, buries her face in his collar, and they just stand there motionless, silent, until Whale announces to the entire room, "Her vitals are perfect. Okay, folks, say your goodbyes and get out so the lady can rest. Sheriffs, if these rubberneckers aren't gone in five, chase 'em out." Whale hands Snow the fleece. "As long as you're up to your old tricks, Gold, I got someone I'd like you to drop in on."

"I'm not. . . I need to think. . . "

"You've got it, flaunt it," Whale prompts. "I'll buy you a cone afterwards."

"Wait a minute. Mr. Gold, Mrs. Gold–somebody, explain to me what just happened here," Sheriff Wolf interrupts. "For instance, what was that voodoo thing you just did to my deputy?"

"I got this," Emma calls out. "Whale, you go ahead and take them to that other patient." She sits up, with Bae's arms lifting her. "Ian, let me clue you in on some stuff."

Gold glances at the Charmings, who seem alarmed by Emma's apparent intention to reveal Storybrooke's secrets to an outsider. But they believe in her, not just as their family-devoted daughter or their truth-telling former sheriff, but as Fairytale Land's savior. So when the discomfort turns to resolve in their expressions, Gold relaxes–just in time for Whale to grab his arm.

Helplessly, Gold allows Whale to lead him and Belle toward the elevator. They've just pushed the call button when Snow and Charming rush toward them. "Thank you." Snow hugs Gold. "I don't know what else to say. Thank you."

Charming's face is red. "You saved our daughter. There aren't any words to say to repay that."

Rumple has a pretty good idea of a few words that suffice, like "Forget that exile thing" or even "we royally screwed the pooch when we banished you," but the elevator has arrived as Whale's yammering something in Latin and Belle's tugging his arm.

"She's family," he manages to mumble before the elevator doors separate him from royalty.

The walls of the elevator are mirrored. He turns away from them and toward Whale, pretending to listen to the medical jargon. But as the elevator stops, he looks at his reflection, and he startles.

He's looking at a middle-aged man with a gardener's tan and white teeth and neatly trimmed nails and large brown eyes that give a little too much of his game away.

Where the hell did Rumplestiltskin go?

* * *

><p>"Oh, crap," Gold mutters. It's a child. Whale's brain tumor case: it's a six-year-old boy, sitting up in bed, trying to play with his Matchbox cars but all those tubes and wires are in his way. A six-year-old who's apparently been recently visited by the Tooth Fairy, for one of his lower incisors is missing; he's also been visited by a nurse with a shaving kit, for his head is bald.<p>

"I can't," Gold insists, but Belle nudges.

"Let's find out what you can or can't."

"All I want is for you to cheer him up," Whale says. "His folks are so stressed out when they visit, they stress him out too. Fifteen minutes of your time for a kid that hasn't laughed in six months."

Belle pushes Gold toward the bed. "Hello, Angelo, my name is Belle and this is my husband Rumple. He's a magician and he's come to perform a few magic tricks for you. Would you like that?"

The boy forgets his Matchbox cars immediately.

As Whale checks the boy's chart, Gold casts several spells that mimic standard tricks he's seen on TV: the coin behind the ear, the rabbit in the hat, the floating scarves. Gold has no idea how performers make these tricks happen; he'll ask Belle for a book about it someday.

Just ten minutes later, Angelo lies back on his pillow, confessing, "I'm sleepy." Gold strokes the boy's forehead until his eyes close. In the hallway, Whale asks, "So when are you coming back?"

"Whale, you know better than to ask me that."

"What I know is I got a six-year-old with a tumor, a nine-year-old with leukemia, a ninety-three-year-old on dialysis and no living relatives. Not to mention the run-of-the-mill stuff. Laughter relieves stress, eases pain, gives people a diversion from the needles and pills and it doesn't cost a dime. So when are you coming back?"

"Whale, look at who you're talking to."

"I see a guy who looks like Ringo Starr and Charlie Chaplin's love child, after he's come back from a GQ fashion shoot."

"Look again. You see a devil. Do you think Angelo's parents would've let me anywhere near their boy?"

"So you're a heel," Whale shrugs. "So am I. Time wounds all heels, so why not build a little good karma for yourself?"

"I'm not the only magic practitioner around here. I'll talk to Blue. She visits here all the time anyway."

"That's the problem. The patients see her praying over the dying. They hide when they see her coming. No, you're our guy; you're built like a leprechaun and leprechauns are funny." Whale shouts over his shoulder, "Hey, hold the elevator!" He starts walking away. "Wednesday, nine a. m. Ask for Clara. She's the volunteer coordinator."

* * *

><p>The Golds are quiet as they drive back home in Belle's Honda, each trying to come to terms with the events of the day. As they move about the kitchen preparing dinner, Belle finally broaches the subject. "We almost lost Emma."<p>

"Because of my acquisitiveness," Gold says bitterly. "I just had to own everything magical. If it was magic, or useful in magic, I had to bottle it."

"That instinct wasn't wrong. You did a lot of good with those potions too."

He shakes his head. "For a price. I treated magic like any other high-priced commodity."

"You had to. The magic had to be paid for." Belle stops in the middle of unwrapping a package of chops. "Rumple. . .to save a life, that must come with a hefty price." When he doesn't answer, she presses, "What did you pay for the magic that saved Emma?"

"It was a relatively small price."

"Rumple?"

He gestures toward the back door. She rushes to it, flings it open and searches, seeking an answer. "Your Caddy?"

"No. It had to be something I truly valued." He continues to slice apples for the pork chops-and-cinnamon-apples casserole they're having tonight.

"I don't-" then she catches on. "Your garden! You gave up your garden!"

"Nothing will grow there again."

She comes back to slide her arms around his waist. "I'm sorry, darling. I know how much that garden meant to you."

"I was glad to pay it, to keep Emma with us."

* * *

><p>Climbing into bed, the Golds blink at each other. "My head's spinning."<p>

Gold nods. "Yeah. What a day."

"Are you going back on Wednesday?"

"It's against the law."

"That's not what I asked."

"No. Tomorrow I'll gather some iPads to donate to the children's ward. On Wednesday I'll Skype a magic show. I just need to learn a few sleight-of-hand tricks."

Belle claps her hands. "Brilliant."

"Except, uh, I have to go back tomorrow and possibly Friday, to erect the communications and boundary barriers again." He looks sheepish. "But Blue will help me with that. After that, no more magic of the real kind. I hope."

"Call me if you need anything" is all she says, but she's worried.

After a long sigh, he runs his hands through his hair. "Gods, Belle, what happened today?"

"We lived a dozen lifetimes in an afternoon."

He throws himself back onto the mattress. "We sure did."

"You saved a life."

"It was my fault she almost died. I thought I'd cleaned out all the dangerous items."

"She won't see it that way. Neither will Bae."

"What do I do now? I'm cursed again. Won't be long before I'm turning people into snails."

Belle lies down beside him, staring up at the ceiling. "You may not have been aware of this; it happened so fast. But for a minute in the hospital there, you reverted. You became the imp."

"I noticed."

"But Emma kissed you and you came back. Why do you think that happened?"

"I don't know. One minute I was thinking about using my magic to hurt people. The next, I wasn't. I didn't want to. After she kissed me, all I could think of was our family."

"Do you think it will happen again? Another Hulk moment?"

"We'll find out, sooner than later, I suppose." He frowns at the ceiling. A thought's flying around but he can't catch it. "From a merchant to a demon to a clown in one afternoon."

He grabs the thought. Sitting up, he snaps his fingers.

"Did you forget something?"

"I'm trying to transform that lamp into a cup of tea."

"If you're thirsty–"

"No. Watch." He raises both hands into the air.

"What am I watching?"

"Nothing."

"You mean like 'nothing up my sleeve'?" He's shirtless, so of course there's no sleeve for anything to be up.

"I mean like 'nothing at all.' I'm summoning my magic and nothing's happening." He points a finger at a shoe and laughs. "Nothing!" He recites an incantation. "Nothing!"

She bolts to her feet. "Nothing!" Her arms clutch his waist. "No magic!" She dance around him. "Nada!"

"The bubble! I forgot the town bubble! Magic exists only inside Storybrooke. Leave Storybrooke–"

"Leave the magic behind!" Belle bounces on the mattress. "We're free! We're free!" Then she pauses, "If you go back into Storybrooke–"

"But I won't."

"But if you did?"

"Probably. Yes, I think the magic would come back. We'll find out when I see Blue tomorrow. If she loses her magic when she crosses the town line, we'll know."

"Total control. You can shut the magic off just by literally walking away from it. If another emergency arose–"

"But only in Storybrooke. I couldn't conjure solutions anywhere else. Anyway, it's a moot point. I won't violate my deal again."

"Just as well." She drops back on the bed again. "What a day."

"What a day."

"Want to make a baby?"

He laughs. "Why not? The perfect way to end a strange day."


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

He's a bit sore this morning as he comes downstairs to put the coffee on. Playing with magic does that to you when you're pushing 400. He's kind of forgotten how exhausted and old he used to feel after a great expenditure of magic.

Belle's in the shower, which gives him enough time to get a hot breakfast on the table before she comes down, dressed for a day at the library. His own plan for the day, much to his annoyance, is to construct a new barrier spell to protect Storybrooke against outsiders.

A knock at the kitchen door interrupts his egg cracking. "Come on in. Since when did you feel you have to knock?"

"Since we have guests with us," Bae answers.

"Guests?" Gold feels a little silly in his "kiss the cook" apron (a birthday gift from Henry) as Prince David enters looking manly and young in his rolled-up shirt sleeves and jeans. But David doesn't notice (or ignores) the apron and shakes Gold's hand. "Good morning." In his left arm he's carrying a Granny's bag; over his shoulder, the Golden Fleece. "We brought this sheepskin back."

Gold removes it from the young man's shoulder and drapes it across Bae's chair, smoothing it. It's turned black from the poison. Gold will give it a place of honor in his collection. Charming has no notion of the fleece's value, either historical or monetary; now the fleece bears great personal value for Gold. Someday, maybe, Charming will cherish things the way Gold does, not for their rarity, which lends them monetary value, but for the link they provide to people and places that no longer exist. But perhaps not: Charming will probably always have a young man's outlook, living in the moment, even when he needs a cane to walk.

But Henry will understand. He'll have a foot in both the past and the future. This fleece Gold will leave to him. It's part of his personal history now.

Charming is a great commander: ethical, compassionate, detail-oriented. But Henry will be a great leader.

Charming's attention is fixed on the immediate future: he's unpacking the Granny's bag. "We also brought breakfast. A small thank you for yesterday."

He can't think of anything else to say, so Gold replies, "You're welcome" and calls up the stairs, "Belle, we have company."

Snow comes in with Henry, who's hauling a greeting card the length of a baseball bat. "Hey, Grandpa! Mom couldn't come 'cause they wanted to keep her overnight. The hospital, I mean, just in case. But she told me to give you this." He plants a kiss on Gold's cheek. "And this is from me."

Gold has to set his cane aside and use both hands to open the card. There's a drawing of a batter in a Yankees jersey, slugging a baseball into the sun. The caption reads, "You hit a homer yesterday, Grandpa!" The batter has shoulder-length brown hair–Henry's courteously omitted the gray. "Thanks for saving my mom."

The boy's voice is cracking. Won't be long now 'til he's legally driving, then off to college. The town will seem empty without him.

"Thanks for the card, Henry. Will you get the silverware? So, Your Majesties, what brings you out to Bell's Corners?"

"We came to say thanks," Snow replies, unpacking the Granny's bag. "A thank-you from Granny." She holds up a container of dill pickles.

"Well! Coffee or orange juice, Snow?"

"Snow!" Belle runs down the stairs in her stocking feet, her pony tail swinging. After a hug for the queen, there's a hug for the prince. "David, welcome to Bell's Corners."

"Hey, Belle! Mom says hi and she'll be home tomorrow."

"That's good news, Henry. We'll bake a cake tonight."

Snow moves to the head of the table. "Everyone, if I could have your attention?" She reaches into her purse for a rolled parchment.

All talk and action cease.

"'Rumplestiltskin Gold, in recognition for your heroism yesterday, risking your own well-being to rescue Princess Emma, and in recognition of your many acts of charity in Storybrooke, I, Queen Snow, do hereby grant you a full, free and absolute pardon for all offenses you have or may have committed against the Kingdom of the Enchanted Forest and the township of Storybrooke.'" Now Snow pauses to let the news sink in. "And, parent to parent: thank you."

Snow stands there expectantly, smiling; minutes tick by and her smile wavers. David scowls: the Golds have offended his wife by their lack of response. More minutes tick by. The Golds resume setting the table, and Belle mumbles, "That's very nice of you. Generous. Thank you, and thank Granny for the pickles, will you?"

Gold holds back a chuckle: did sweet, humble Belle really just dis the queen by lumping her pardon in with pickles? But Gold notices an icy glint in her eyes. They will talk about this when they're alone: he feels the same way she does. Wicked words dance on his tongue. This pardon is what he rather expected to hear yesterday, when he might have acceped it gracefully, but today, for some reason he can't pin down, it feels more like an insult than an acknowledgement of his reformation. He wants to throw them out, to tell them their pardon means nothing to him. The Dark One decides his own fate; he's honored the banishment only because he always honors his deals, almost.

But Henry's staring up at him, glowing with joy. In the boy's mind, his grandparents can now shake hands and say "I'm sorry" and "Forgive and forget." His families can be unified; his mother will no longer be caught in the middle.

Biting his tongue, Gold squeezes Henry's shoulder and manages a smile. "Thank you, Your Majesty. And you and the Prince are welcome in our home anytime."

"And on that note: Shall we eat? Please, be seated," Belle says brightly.

Oh, yes, Belle and Gold will talk later.

Blue arrives midway through the meal and while Henry fetches a chair for her from the dining room, Gold pours her a cup of coffee and Belle brings her a plate. "Granny's!" she gushes. "Best bacon in two counties. Good morning, Snow, David."

David rises from his chair as his wife kisses Blue's cheek. "How are you, Blue? And Bernadette and Cecilia?"

"Pretty good."

Henry arrives with the chair and scoots it in for her once she's seated. He blushes a little as David gives his arm a congratulatory pat for demonstrating such gentlemanly manners. Belle passes the platter of scrambled eggs to the nun, who scoops a serving onto her plate, saying, "We hope you'll make it to our grand opening Monday."

"I have it in my planner," Snow reports.

"What you're doing will be a big help to the poor in Storybrooke," David says. "There seem to be a lot more of them these days."

"The economy is really struggling," Snow agrees. "Unemployment is at nine percent. Two families moved out last week."

"To try their luck in Boston," David finishes.

"We're hoping to get some school clothes donated," Blue says. "And winter coats, shoes. We have several volunteer seamstresses, as well as Mr. Browning, to mend frayed cuffs, sew on buttons and such."

"Why don't you just conjure up the clothes?" Henry suggests.

"We could, now. Perhaps we will. But people need to take care of each other, not become dependent upon magic to solve their problems. That way leads to trouble." Blue accepts the platter of bacon and sausage. "God gave us hands and minds so that we could serve each other, and hearts to love each other. If we leave it to fairies and sorcerers to take care of the poor and the sick, we're not fulfilling our responsibilities to each other."

"And it's not just things that the poor need from us," Snow adds. "It's the human connection."

"Bernadette and Cecilia have already left for the store. I expect I won't be able to join them today; it will take most of the day to design and cast the spell for the new town barrier." Blue bites into a slice of toast.

"I'll go over after the animal shelter closes tonight," David offers.

"We also need to re-erect the communications dome," Gold reminds the nun. "And quick, before some goofball posts photos of the magic cloud onto his Facebook wall."

"A mage's work is never done." Blue and Gold share a smile, causing the royals to raise eyebrows.

"I gotta say, I never thought I'd see the day you two would buddy up," David says.

"Thank you," Snow says. "We're very grateful for your efforts to protect Storybrooke."

Gold bites back a smart-ass quip; he reminds himself that especially now, with Henry in a rebellious stage, all the adults in the lad's life need to set good examples. So he merely nods as Belle, forcing a cheery smile, shares the news of the pardon.

Blue praises the decision. "I think it's a wonderful start, a step toward healing. And it sends a positive message about forgiveness." The glance she shoots toward Gold is a warning: he's been forgiven; he needs to accept it gracefully and forgive, too.

Gold gives a small shrug. The way he sees it, he's got a right to his feelings, and right now, his feelings tell him he's still hacked off. Well, he and Blue will have a talk about this later. His coffee cup being empty, he rises to bring the pot to the table, but just as he's offering refills, yet another knock, this one at the front door, interrupts.

Henry pops up. "I'll get another chair."

"It's our day for visitors!" Belle starts to arise from her seat, but Gold waves her back down. "I'll get it." He offers Blue the pot. "Perhaps you'd start the coffee around?"

Walking to the front door gives Gold a moment to rearrange his face, wiping away the perplexity in his expression. When he lived in the big pink house, the only visitors he ever had were Belinda and Josiah—if _visitors_ could be used to describe folks who were paid to come to the mansion. In those days, Gold lived a life of quiet anger, his hatred of humanity bubbling beneath the false calm surface he showed the world. And now, behind him, the noise rises as people talk and laugh and forks clatter and the toaster ejects toast and chairs scrape on the floor to make room for one more. How did this happen, and in such a short time? Was it Belle? Bae? Henry? Who caused his life to change so dramatically?

A tiny, tiny part of him would chase them all out, restore the quiet (but not peace; he never knew peace until Bae was returned to him). The noise, the mess, the chaos these people bring, the extra work they cause, the interruption of his work, the intrusion into his life—

"Rumplestiltskin, you crotchety old son of a bitch," he mumbles to himself, picking up the pace to get to the door. "Tell the truth: you wouldn't give up a single moment with a single one of those people." He grabs the knob and pulls, still muttering, "Besides, order is overrated."

"That's one way to look at it." Archie grins at him. "Morning, Mr. Gold."

"Morning, Archie."

"I can see you have a full house." The psychiatrist waves at the caravan of cars filling the driveway and street. "Sorry to interrupt, but I had an errand to run here anyway, so I thought I'd stop by, see how things were going."

"Come on in, have some breakfast," Gold pushes the door open. "We're celebrating an announcement by the queen."

"Well, ah, actually," Archie raises the medical bag in his hand to draw attention to it. "I wanted to do a quick check, in light of the changes of the past few days."

"I'm feeling fine, but all right. Let's go in my office." Gold leads Archie in through the living room to the study and invites him to sit on the leather couch.

"Lovely home you have here," Archie observes, unpacking the medical bag. "I hope I'm not interrupting a party."

"No party, just breakfast at the Golds'." Gold sits down in an armchair near the couch. "An everyday occurrence, though we don't usually have so many. The Nolans are here. The queen granted me a pardon."

"That's great, Mr. Gold." Archie slips a stethoscope around his neck. "Though, I will say, no surprise to me. I think your slate has been wiped clean." His eyes flash with an uncharacteristic display of annoyance. "You've paid. Anyone who would argue otherwise is just a stubborn old biddy who ought to clean up her own backyard before she—sorry. Kind of got carried away there."

"Had an argument with your future mother-in-law over the goals of the justice system?" Gold's mouth twitches in a suppressed smile.

"Was it the 'old biddy' reference that gave me away?" Archie blushes. "I really do love Grizelda. She gave Ruby a loving home and a fine upbringing, but because of her age, she thinks the way she sees things is how they really are, and she can't admit to her own mistakes." Archie presses the stethoscope to Gold's chest. "Breathe in. . . breathe out. Again." He shifts to Gold's back.

"She sent me a container of pickles this morning."

"Really?" Archie presses the stethoscope to Gold's back. "Breathe in. . . breathe out. Maybe there's hope for her yet. Again." He returns the stethoscope to the bag and takes out a thermometer, which he cleans with a sterilized wipe, then slides into Gold's mouth. "Hey, you said 'future mother-in-law.' How'd you know? We haven't announced it yet."

Around the thermometer, Gold mumbles.

"Oh. I should've guessed. Belle would be the last person Ruby could keep a secret from. Ruby did the proposing, but I'm selecting the wedding ring—that's _my_ secret. That's why I came here: Diamond Lil closed down last month, so there's noplace to buy jewelry in Storybrooke. I'm hoping you might have something appropriate in your shop."

Gold nods. When Archie removes the thermometer, he's finally free to explain. "I have a vintage yellow gold set, man's and woman's bands. And for an engagement ring, I have a ring with two oval-cut rubies with a diamond in between. If they don't suit, I can always cut a deal for you with jewelers in Boston; I have quite a few contacts."

"Just as I hoped. We have plenty of time; we're marrying in December." Archie wraps a blood pressure cuff around Gold's arm. "Now, back to business. Your physical health is fine today. I want you to start taking your blood pressure within an hour every time you go into Storybrooke, and again within an hour of leaving. I'll write you a prescription for a monitor. Get the pharmacist to teach you how to use it. Call me on Thursday and give me the readings. And I want you to start a dream journal. Every morning, first thing, write down everything you can remember of any dreams you've had the night before. And if you or Belle notice any physical or emotional differences—"

"Like if I suddenly start helping little old ladies cross the street, or petting puppies?"

"Whatever isn't typical Gold, I want to hear about it."

"This isn't a run-of-the-mill, senior-citizen checkup, is it? This is about the magic."

Archie replaces his equipment in his bag. "You need to say it, Mr. Gold."

"I don't know what—"

"Yes, you do."

Gold drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. Lies, all sorts of lies, leap into his head; some of them are real beauts. He's an old pro when it comes to lies. But Archie's staring at him: Archie will recognize a lie, and more importantly, Archie's here to help. That's all: this isn't an investigation for some higher authority to pass judgment on Gold's fitness for freedom. In fact, Archie won't disclose any information to anyone, not even Bae or Belle, unless Gold grants permission. So Gold draws in a breath and nods. "This is about the magic, about my reaction to it, because I'm an addict."

Archie closes his medical bag. "You told me the other day, when the magic first entered your bloodstream, you felt 'red.' Whenever you feel like that again, call me. Your life may depend upon it."

Gold frowns. "Magic never caused me any health—"

"Under the influence of magic, you've killed, you've tortured, you've cheated. Under the influence of magic, everything you've done to others, you've done to yourself. Believe me, Mr. Gold, when I say your life may depend upon how attentive you are to your symptoms and how quickly you fight back against them. Think of me as your sword and all those people in there, they're your shield." Archie's voice fills with wonder. "My gods, Gold, I never saw anyone so well equipped for battle as you."

"Aye. I'm an extraordinarily fortunate man. I don't let a day go by without reminding myself of that. So you think I have a chance to overcome my addiction."

"No. No one ever overcomes addiction," Archie answers sharply. "You have to remind yourself of that every day too. Some therapists believe that in a few, rare cases, alcoholics in recovery can learn to drink in moderation. 'Moderation management,' it's called. I'm not convinced it's possible, but if you choose to go down that road—if you want to resume practicing magic on a limited basis—I'll help, if you'll promise to listen to me, and I think you have a better chance at success than most, because of them." He points to the kitchen.

The words tumble out before his pride can block them. "I don't know what to do, Archie. It would be easier to avoid the issue altogether. I have all the rest of the world to roam in; I don't have any need or desire to go into Storybrooke. I keep plenty busy here. I have everything I want. I even have a bit of power here, the kind I don't have to bully people for. They give it to me because they trust me and they expect me to do good with it."

"That's the kind of power you can keep."

"I don't need magic." Gold leans back in his chair, mulling over the realization. "I don't need magic."

"If that's true, you're in recovery. But remember, Mr. Gold, you'll always be an addict."

"But. . .am I supposed to have it?"

Archie folds his hands thoughtfully. "I know your friend Won-Que believes that's so, and to walk away from magic is to walk away from your destiny."

"From myself," Gold amends. "Like an artist who refuses to paint again, or a musician who won't play again. Is magic what I was meant to be? And if it is, and I walk away from it, am I living only half a life?"

"How you use the magic is as important a question in your recovery as how often you use it."

"To find Bae," Gold answers immediately. "That was the reason for my magic. But that reason has been fulfilled."

"That's not all. The cart driver, Hordor, Milah—"

"Anger. I used magic sometimes out of anger."

"Provoked by insult. You felt disrespected by those people."

"And sometimes," Gold remembers Milah, "when I struck out, it was myself I wanted to hurt."

"When was the last time someone insulted you, Mr. Gold?"

Gold stares at the floor, trying to recall. "I don't. . . it doesn't happen any more. . ."

"Doesn't it? Or maybe you just ignore it these days."

"Whale called me a leprechaun yesterday. Right after he called me a heel and Charlie Chaplin's lovechild."

"How did you get back at him?"

"Well, I," Gold shrugs, "I didn't."

"You didn't hit him with your cane or conjure him a case of heartburn?" Gold shakes his head slowly. "Raise his rent? Key his car? Surely you made a remark back."

Gold shakes his head. "I guess I didn't really notice what he said. I had my mind on other things, more important things. A little boy who needs help."

"There's the first arrow in your quiver. When you feel 'red,' instead of reaching for your magic, reach for that arrow: think about that boy, or some other problem that needs resolving. Reprogram your thoughts; if you're absorbed in problem-solving, your brain won't have room for the 'red.' And when you feel insulted, betrayed, abandoned—"

Gold nods toward the family photos hanging on his wall. "Them. I'll think of them, and how damn lucky I am."

"And how loved." Archie stands. "I'm willing to give moderation management a try with you, Mr. Gold, if you want it."

"I'm not sure. . . but there's a boy in the Storybrooke Hospital. . . ."

"Two months. I'll write out a program for you to follow. We'll see how things look at the end of two months." Archie runs his tongue over his upper lip. "Your family's going to be wondering where you got off to, and that bacon you've got on the stove is calling my name."

Gold rises, reaching for his cane. "Dr. Hopper, won't you join us for a celebratory breakfast? Now that we have something we can all enthusiastically celebrate."


	58. Chapter 58

Chapter 58

As soon as the Caddy rolls over the orange line that divides Storybrooke from the world, Gold feels the change. He pulls over to the side of the road to take his blood pressure as magic seeps into his pores, making his scalp itch, his body tingle and his heart pound. He watches his hands, but the skin remains the same wrinkly brown; he draws his rear view mirror down and examines his eyes, but they've remained the same earth brown. Physically, at least, the Dark One seems to be permanently gone. Whether his soul has darkened under the power, that's the question that worries him. He'll have to monitor his thoughts and emotions–and his behavior.

"Did you feel it?" he gasps.

"Yeah." Blue has closed her eyes. When she opens them, the brown of her irises has changed to purple. Her face is pale. "I suppose we'll get used to this eventually. I hope so, anyway; with the store, I'll be driving into Storybrooke two or three times a week."

"Magic on, magic off," Gold quips. His body has begun to stabilize. Her eyes have turned brown again and the color's come back to her cheeks. He turns the engine off and opens the trunk to retrieve his and her cases of potions and powders. With a glance at the sun, Blue suggests, "Let's get started. It's going to be a hot day."

* * *

><p>Gold and Blue stand sweating and panting at the "Welcome to Storybrooke" sign. They've been here all day, redesigning and rebuilding the boundary spell to fit the specifications agreed upon by the royals, the City Council and Blue in an emergency meeting last night. Surprisingly, the criteria were easy to agree upon, for once; it's been the implementation that's been problematic. They've had to tear down and restart four times as they've discovered flaws in the magic. "I can remember a time, not so long ago, when we could have gotten this work done in half the time," Gold mops his brow, then gulps from a water bottle.<p>

Blue smiles. "Yeah, but in those days, our arguing would have slowed it all down anyway." She accepts the water bottle from him and chugs the rest.

"Let's come back in the morning and double-check our work. I, for one, couldn't manage another spell today. Not even so much as a cube of ice for this water."

"We need to eat. Come on, I'll treat you to Persie's blue plate special."

They climb back into the Caddy and with the air conditioning cranked up, head for home. As soon as they've crossed out of Storybrooke, he feels the magic drain from his body, leaving him feeling small and old.

* * *

><p>They've worked hard today, and they'll work just as hard tomorrow as they reassemble the communications block. They've earned their rest, except there's one more matter Gold needs to take care of. "Blue, you know the price for saving a human life with magic is extremely high."<p>

"Yes." She peers at him sideways. "I'm assuming you had to give up something precious yesterday."

"I'm sorry. It had to be something that meant a great deal to me. I surrendered the garden, all and forever. My backyard will be nothing but artificial turf."

Strangely, her reaction is a smile. "We can plant at the convent, next spring," she assures him. "The important thing is, Emma's all right. I watched you closely, in those few seconds as you were deciding whether to bring magic back. You were struggling: you didn't want the power, did you?"

"No. I can honestly say I didn't. I don't want to be—what I was."

"You chose the magic for Emma's sake. Keep that in mind. Your decision was unselfish and your use of magic these past two days has been only for the benefit of others."

"Don't count your chickens," he warns. "I've yet to see if I brought back the darkness too."

"Your friends will have your back, Rumplestiltskin. If you need us–if you need me–just call."

"That reminds me: did you attempt to use your magic in Bell's Corners yesterday?"

"No. It just didn't occur to me." Blue eases back in her seat. "I've gotten used to not having magic."

"I'd like you to conjure something."

"Conjure what? I'm not sure I can manage anything impressive after that workout today."

"Anything. Doesn't matter how small or how simple."

Blue holds out her hand. "All right, I'm conjuring a banana." She wrinkles her nose. "I'm a bit peckish. Huh." Blue frowns, her open palm remaining empty. She concentrates harder but produces nothing. "No magic. I don't even feel a tingle."

Gold is beaming now. "That's what I thought. What I hoped."

"Oh, yes. . . .So much happened yesterday that I'd forgotten that under the original curse, our magic was contained within the Storybrooke limits."

"And so it is now. Does it worry you?" Gold asks.

"Getting enough donated school clothes in time for the store's grand opening worries me. The fighting in Gaza worries me. The hurricane in the Texas Gulf Coast worries me. Bernadette's bookkeeping worries me; we came up twenty dollars short last week. We may have to ask the landlord for an extension on our rent payment."

"Does that worry you?" he chuckles.

"Nah, I've got friends in high places. But my magic being limited to Storybrooke? That doesn't worry me at all. Does it worry you?"

"No." He scratches his temple, a nervous habit. "Surprisingly, it doesn't. Henry's teenage rebellion worries me. Belle's and my difficulty in starting a family worries me. China's attempts to censor freedom of speech over the Internet worry me: my friend Won-Que has written some pretty incendiary things on his blog."

"And don't forget the original purpose for limiting the magic to Storybrooke: if outsiders could tap into magic, too many would treat it like their own personal nuclear arsenal."

"It's out of Regina's reach."

"That it is. Though she does seem to have reformed. If she had access to magic again, who knows? She might handle it responsibly."

"One never knows with Regina."

"Or with magic. Its temptations can be irresistible, especially to those who aren't aware of its price."

"I noticed last night that I was exhausted, like today."

Blue nods. "I used to get that way after some big magical activity, like a transformation."

"After I transported the ogres out of Avonlea, I spent most of the next day in bed," Gold confesses. "I'd locked Belle into the dungeon so she wouldn't see; I was afraid she'd escape if she saw my power was drained. I need to apologize to her for that."

"I'm sure she'll understand: moving an army of four-hundred-pound creatures single-handedly takes tremendous energy. If I know Belle, she'd say a night in the dungeon is a small sacrifice to free her people of ogres."

"I needed her, even then." He shakes his head slowly at the realization. "I needed her from the moment I saw her. She's what matters. She and Bae, Henry, Emma, the Doves, the Hoppers, you and Bernadette and Cecilia, the Bells, the clinic staff—"

Blue chuckles. "If you keep listing all your friends, Persie's will be closed by the time we get home."

All the tension rushes from his body, like air from a punctured balloon. "Yeah. That's the real magic, isn't it? What people do for each other, what they feel for each other."

"That's the magic that builds you up instead of wearing you down. I wouldn't trade the life we have here for the power we had in the Enchanted Forest."

* * *

><p>As the Golds settle into bed, Gold jots down some notes in his journal.<p>

"How was your blood pressure today?" He's told Belle everything about his Storybrooke excursion today; he will need to lean on her sometimes if he's to succeed with this moderation management program.

"It jumped as soon as I crossed the town line, but after I finished working on the barrier spell, and I was drained, it fell back to normal and stayed that way when I came home. One more trip into Storybrooke, to test the spells we cast, and then I'm done with that town."

Belle plays with the drawstring on his pajama bottoms. "Would your blood pressure elevate if we. . . ?"

"Belle, just being near you causes me all kinds of elevation." He pushes her hair aside and attacks her neck with soft lovebites.

* * *

><p>His eyes fly open in the dark. He's sitting upright, his legs caught in the sheets, his hair clinging damp to his forehead. Belle is lying peacefully on her side, so whatever woke him up didn't disturb her. He eases out of bed, pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand and stands at the open window, looking out into the empty street as a breeze dries the sweat on his chest.<p>

He remembers now what woke him. He'd been dreaming he and his family were back in the Dark Castle, seated at the dining table in the Great Hall, he at the head of the table, Belle at the foot, and Bae, Henry, Emma, the nuns and the Doves in between. With a flourish of his gold-skinned hand, he conjured a feast, then proudly invited the family to enjoy all that his magic had provided. Dishes were passed back and forth, plates and goblets filled—but when the family sank their forks into the food, it vanished. The adults all looked to him in confusion, and Henry said plaintively, "I'm hungry, Grandpa." Embarrassed, he conjured the feast again, but again it vanished as soon as it was touched. And then, because he could no longer provide for them, and because he was a phony, one by one his family pushed back their chairs, stood and walked out on him.

* * *

><p>She could easily pass for Belle's grandmother. Like Belle, she's petite and blue-eyed, and strands of auburn are mixed with the gray, and like Belle, she can poke a hole in his inflated melodramas with a few common-sense comments and a twinkling smile. Really, he will have to introduce Belle to the hospital volunteer coordinator Clara Donegal sometime.<p>

Then again, no. The mighty sorcerer would be helpless if these two sweethearts ever ganged upon on him, for even as he's explaining his iPad plan to her, Clara is linking her arm in his, nodding, praising his cleverness, admiring his command of modern technology (and completely suckering him in with that particular bit of flattery, since he's struggled so hard in secret to master the tablet). Before he can finish describing his Skype plan, she's got him on the elevator, she's pressing the call button for the third floor, she's still nodding and praising and encouraging him to go on with his description, and then, to his embarrassment, they're walking past the nurses' station in the children's wing, and the nurses are all greeting him by name, their smiles genuine (and two or three of them, just a mite flirty). "Welcome back, Mr. Gold" (not "Rumplestiltskin"; he likes that; in these years since leaving Storybrooke, he's felt more and more Gold, the ordinary man, and less and less Rumplestiltskin, the imp). "Good to see you again, Mr. Gold." "The children have been asking for you. They'll be delighted to see you, sir."

He tries to protest: this isn't what he came for; he intended to drop off the iPads and beat it back home. Storybrooke is not where he belongs any more, and quite possibly, its magic may not be healthy for him. Like waving the cork of a cabernet under an alcoholic's nose. . . .

Clara's not listening. She pretends to, but she's steering him into a semi-private room, within arm's reach of two beds, and now on either side of him are a pair of little girls. One, a five-year-old named Winnie, has a leg in a cast, but other than that, she seems to be doing well in her recovery: she's sitting up, pillows well fluffed behind her, and she squeals as the visitors come in. "Magic!" She was in his audience two days ago. She opens her arms and wiggles her fingers, and he's trapped by his own thawed heart: he bends down to accept her hug and before he can escape her, she plants her lips on his cheek.

The other girl is new. She's nine, Clara says, and her name is Ellie. Clara doesn't name Ellie's illness; Gold understands that. All day long, the adults who come in and out of these rooms are talking about illness. The children revive in the presence of adults who perceive them as children, instead of patients. That's what the Candy Stripers accomplish. That's why Clara's latched onto Gold.

Ellie is too shy (or too ill) to greet the visitors, but when Clara asks if she would like to see some magic tricks, she sets her book aside–and Gold throws a brief glare at Clara, wondering if this is a set-up, because the book is _Beauty_ _and_ _the_ _Beast_. Clara ignores him, focusing on Ellie.

He's lost now. His grand plan for fulfilling his promise to the hospital without setting foot again in Storybrooke is shot to pieces. "'Ellie,' which in Greek means 'light.'" With a flick of the wrist he produces a small dancing ball of light in his palm. Then he flicks his wrist again and the ball is floating in a glass jar. "This is for you, Ellie." He sets the jar on her nightstand. "It will turn on or turn off at your command. So whenever you need a light, just call for it." He snaps his fingers and the ball of light flickers out. "Try it."

Ellie frowns; after all, she's nine and not easily tricked. But she gives it a go: "Light, come." The ball flickers back into existence. Ellie's face clears, but she still has doubts. "Light, off." The ball vanishes. Ellie giggles now.

"More magic!" Winnie claps.

Gold thinks for a moment before he chooses her gift. "'Winifred' in Welch means 'peace,' and what's more peaceful than a teddy bear?" He conjures the girl a Winnie the Pooh that dances on her command, and she's instantly in love, with it and with him.

He does a few more tricks for them–or perhaps _tricks _isthe wrong word, since he's using real magic. He bows and they applaud, and he moves on to the next room. Before he proceeds to the third room, however, Clara advises him to take off his tie and jacket so he won't appear so stiff. Excusing himself, he transports himself to the nuns' used-clothing shop to borrow more casual attire, then he's back, ready for his third show, this time leading the way. Six rooms later, he realizes he's committed now; forget Skype. These shows bring a few minutes' relief to the kids, but they're healing something in him. "Give the iPads to the children to take home," he instructs Clara. "I'll be back next Wednesday."

Clara just smiles.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Gold."<p>

Emma's looking a little frayed around the edges, and the sassy's missing from her tone, but she smiles as she elbows through a group of Candy Stripers and makes her way to his cafeteria table. He stands as she approaches, withdraws a chair for her. She plants a chocolate chip cookie in front of him. "For you. To say thanks."

"Emma, good afternoon. What brings you back to Storybrooke General?"

"A last check-up. Clean bill of health. They told me you dropped in to donate a bunch of iPads, and then Clara talked you into doing another impromptu magic show."

"It wasn't much of a show, I'm sorry to say. Blue and I spent all morning working on the communications dome, and that drained us. She went over to Granny's to fortify, and I came here."

"Who knew you were such a softie?"

"Oh, don't underestimate me, child. I'm still the Dark One. I think."

She shakes her head. "You entertaining a bunch of sick kids. I asked Whale whether it was a bet or a dare that put him up to asking you to play clown, but he said you were a natural. That's real nice, what you're doing. And nice shirt."

He cringes. He's wearing a shirt he borrowed from the nuns' donation pile, a Hawaiian print with surfboarding Santas plastered all over it. If the Brotherhood of Armani Devotees finds out, they'll kick him out of the club. But at least the kids seemed to like the shirt. They were comfortable enough around him to ask about his limp, and he gave them a little talk about coping with disabilities. He'd never talked with anyone about that before; this gig Whale roped him into may have hidden benefits.

"I want to apologize for my carelessness, Emma. I thought I'd disposed of that snuff box. I should have checked the shop before I. . .moved to Bell's Corners." He bites back the urge to use the term _was banished_.

"I'm an officer of the law. I should know better than to poke my finger into an unknown substance. And hey, I'm no worse for wear. Bae told me what you did, the magic, how you didn't want to, but you did it for me."

"The magic's range is limited to Storybrooke, so it's like there's only one wet county in the world, and as long as I stay out it most of the time, I'm okay."

"I wanted to say thanks, but that didn't seem like enough. Seemed like something's missing. Then I realized what it was: I wanted to call you by your name. But I've never called you anything but 'Gold,' and that doesn't seem right any more. But 'Rumple,' that's for those who have a past in the Enchanted Forest with you. Do you have a first name here?"

He toys with his coffee cup. "I'll tell you something I've told only Belle: Regina chose my name here. And no, she didn't give me a first name. I suppose she thought I'd like that; people couldn't get overly familiar with me."

"Oh." Emma thinks for a moment. "I'll tell you something only Bae knows: the name Child Protective Services gave me was Emma Doe. 'Emma' was stitched into the blanket I was wrapped in when I was found, but Doe, that's just a name they use when they don't know the right name. When I ran away from my last foster home, I started calling myself Swan. My favorite story, when I was little, was 'The Ugly Duckling.'"

Gold sets a comforting hand on hers. "A good name."

"So how about if I call you 'Pop,' like Bae does? It won't take anything away from David; I call him 'Dad.'"

"I'd like that, Emma, very much." He beams at her and she automatically beams back. It's the biggest, most open-hearted smile they've ever shared. "By the way, what did you tell Ian Wolf about us?"

Emma twinkles. "Everything. Snow White and Prince Charming, Fairytale Land, the curse, the magic wardrobe, True Love's Kiss, the dragon in the library, yadda yadda yadda." When he looks alarmed, she chuckles. "He said I was clearly still under the effects of that poison, which clearly is a hallucinogenic, and that's how he'd put in down in his report: deputy exposed to unknown hazardous chemical that caused hallucinations. So our secret's safe. And Mom told me about the pardon. I hope you'll take it the way it was intended. Maybe it wasn't done in the best way, but she really did mean it as a burying of the hatchet. Let bygones be bygones, because the Nolans and the Golds, we're family; we may spit and hiss at each other, but we've got each other's back against everyone else."

* * *

><p>"Good to see you again, Mr. Gold!" Samuel Browning, owner of Storybrooke's only tailor shop, comes out from behind his cash register to press both hands over Gold's free one. "It's been a long time."<p>

"I've missed your work," Gold says, fingering a bolt of cloth stretched out on the counter. "We don't have a tailor in Bell's Corners. And I've missed our conversations."

"I have too. I have too." Browning sighs. "And, frankly, your business. I'm probably going to close at the end of the year."

"That would be a tragedy, my friend." Gold thinks for a moment. "Did you ever consider going into sportswear? I suppose you've heard about Creativity Camp. You might find a new clientele there."

"I'll consider it. Thank you, Mr. Gold. It may be the answer. Cup of tea?"

"Thanks, I could use one." He follows Browning to the back of the shop, where all the sewing is done. This shop has the exact same floor plan as the pawnshop's; Gold has always felt comfortable here.

Browning pours him a cup and studies him as he sips from it. "You look very well, Mr. G. If you don't mind my saying so, you're hardly using your cane. If I didn't know, I'd think you were carrying it just for fashion."

"Thank you. I'm feeling very well." Having rested from the morning's dome-building, he feels stronger, more vibrant; he could lift a bus over his head with one finger—as long as he spoke a spell first. "What I came in for—I hope this doesn't disappoint you too much, but I need some new shirts and slacks, a whole new style. I'm doing some volunteer work at the hospital, some occasional entertainment for the kids, and Armani is too formal for that. It kind of scares the kids when a guy in a business suit walks in. So I need something. . . cheerful."

"Cheerful."

"Yeah. Friendly looking."

"What did you have in mind, Mr. Gold?"

"I have absolutely no idea. I've never tried to appear cheerful and friendly."

"Well, let me wash our cups and we'll see what the design books have to show us." Browning takes back the cup Gold used. As he rinses it, he's perplexed. "This is odd. What–?" He shows Gold the cup. "I could've sworn I gave you a green cup. In fact, I don't even own a cup like this."

The cup is white with a blue design. And a chip on the lip. . . .

Gold chuckles. "That's my alarm clock."

"Huh?"

"My magic is reminding me I need to get home. Tell you what: I trust your judgment. Make me four friendly shirts and slacks sets."

"I can have your new clothes ready next Tuesday."

"That's perfect. My next magic show is Wednesday." Gold takes a last sip of tea and stands. "Think about Creativity Camp, Sam. You could make a good living with it. Treadle could help you get started."

* * *

><p>He's on the street, unlocking his car, thinking about getting home to Belle, when Spencer crosses his path.<p>

The DA is dressed impeccably, as always (he actually beat out Gold three times in the _Mirror_'s "Best Dressed Man of the Year" award). He's carrying a briefcase but he's in no hurry, so Gold surmises he's just come from court—apparently, successfully, for he's smirking. "So the jailbird flies home. Planning to rule the Storybooke roost again, Gold?"

Gold ignores him. He's busy loading some purchases from the nuns' shop into his back seat. Spencer takes this as fear, so he presses on: "I see that pardon you bought for yourself cost you a pretty penny. Never thought I'd see you buying other people's discards."

"Go screw yourself, Spencer," Gold mutters.

Spencer dares to reach out and finger the fabric of the surfing Santas shirt. "Going for the 'bourgie backyard barbequer' look? If you're selling off your Armanis, I'll buy them from you. They'd fit my four-year-old grandson."

Red. Gold's seeing red. The vein in his temple's throbbing.

"Since you're in the used clothes market, my granddaughter has some Barbie clothes you can have; if you take them in, they'd fit your wife. Those little white plastic heels are just her style."

Gold concentrates hard on healthier thoughts: Angelo, for just a few minutes laughing as Gold conjured a turtle from a baseball cap (after building a communications barrier, Gold couldn't summon the magic for a rabbit and a top hat). Belle, brushing her hair this morning, her long, elegant curtain of hair. Bae and Emma cleaning up the kitchen after yesterday's celebratory breakfast. Henry, mowing the-

Spencer stares pointedly at Gold's beltline. "From what I hear, what you ought to be shopping for is a sperm donor. Or is that what you keep that ex-husband of hers around for?"

Won-Que, teaching Gold and Belle how to meditate. Blue, weeding the garden. Dove, painstakingly cleaning a frame.

"Maybe you just need to drop in at the library for a book to teach you how to satisfy your wife. Maybe then you could knock her—" Spencer finishes his sentence with a quack, for he's been transformed into a duck. Another snap of Gold's fingers and the DA-duck is in a cage, being carried into the animal shelter. Gold's going to offer him for adoption, and if the shelter won't take him, Gold will carry him across the street to the butcher's shop. Somebody in town will certainly enjoy duck for dinner tonight.

"Hey." Charming glances up from the counter as Gold enters.

Crap. Grandpas are supposed to set good examples, even Dark grandpas. Lately Gold's had his eye on a "Grandpa of the Year" coffee mug in the BC Pharmacy window. There's only one mug, but Henry's got two grandpas. Gold's got to step up his game if he's going to be the recipient of that mug. _Be like the mirror. Allow no evil to pass through you._

"Whatcha got there? Wounded duck?"

"No." Gold turns on his heel and marches out again. On the street he looks around and finds another idea. He's going to do the right thing, of course, but maybe he could be permitted just a little payback. . . . In the park there's a large, ornate fountain that Regina had erected as a memorial to her father; it will do. Gold sets the cage into the water of that fountain, then flicks his wrist. As an indication that he's truly trying to be good, Gold turns and walks away without looking back (though he can hear the rehumanized Spencer sputtering, splashing and swearing).


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter 59

When he arrives home, Gold phones Archie to talk about this instance of backsliding. Gold confesses, "I have to admit, when I felt the red coming on, I didn't do anything to stop it."

"Maybe," Archie speculates, "that wasn't so much a 'red' moment as an 'orange' one—a 'duck a l'orange' one." After a chuckle, the men force on their serious tones. "You won't do it again, will you, Mr. Gold?"

"I never repeat a prank."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"I was wrong to use my magic to lash out in anger."

"Very good. And you won't do it again."

"I. . . ."

"Mr. Gold," Archie says in a warning tone.

"I won't do it again."

"And I know that's true, because Rumplestiltskin's word is as good as gold."

"Don't be cute, Archie."

* * *

><p>Another nightmare breaks his sleep.<p>

He's standing naked in his walk-in closet. All around him are hung his suits: Armani black label jackets and slacks, silk shirts, silk ties, a dragonskin coat, leather trousers. He flicks through his collection, deciding what he will wear for the day; at last he chooses the black leather trousers, red brocade vest and gold silk shirt that he had been wearing the day he realized he was falling in love with Belle. He raises his right leg to step into the trousers, but he can't fit his leg inside.

The pants are too small. They're child-size. He tosses them to the floor.

He grabs another pair of leather trousers: again, too small. Armani polyester blend: too small. He has a growing pile of discarded clothes at his feet. None of his shirts fit either. At last, only the dragonskin coat is left. Belle hates this coat, always has. It smells of blood. He slides his arms into the sleeves anyway, and even as he's raising it to his shoulders, the coat is shrinking, and he's caught in it like a patient in a straightjacket. His arms trapped behind his back, he yells for Belle to come help him, but she doesn't answer.

He rushes out of his closet, runs through the entire upstairs, calling for her. Every room is empty. He runs back to the master bedroom and peers out the window into the driveway. The Honda is gone.

He leans out the window, yelling for her.

* * *

><p>"Belle! Belle!"<p>

She shakes him awake. "Darling, what's wrong?"

Still sunk in the quicksand of his dream, he stares with blind eyes into the darkness. She presses a cup of water into his hand, stroking his hair as she urges him to drink. When he gains control of his breathing, she urges him to describe his nightmare. He resists, unwilling to relive it, but he does ask, "Is it still forever, dearie?"

Belle rests her head against his chest. She runs her fingers over the ring he wears on his left hand. "This is a token of my pledge to you, remember? My hand, my heart and my help are yours forever. Nothing anyone can do will change that."

His fingers trail up her arm as he stares at the ceiling. He says nothing more and eventually she falls asleep again, and so does he. He doesn't dream this time, but in his memory echoes the roar of the gunned engine of a Honda.

* * *

><p>It's Wednesday morning. He picks over his eggs, takes too much time cleaning the kitchen. Chattering about a new database she wants for the library, Belle is slow to catch on, but catch on she finally does. "You don't want to go to the hospital."<p>

"Maybe I'd rather the hospital come to me." He avoids facing her by filling the dishwasher. "Last week, I almost turned a man into someone's dinner. Never mind that it was Spencer. What am I going to do this week if someone pisses me off?"

"You'll do what you did last week: stop yourself. I have faith in you, Rumple." She removes a juice glass from his fingers so that she can squeeze his hand. "You'll remember that sick children are waiting for you to come to the hospital. You'll remember that Henry needs your help with his Latin, and that tomorrow you're reaching a class on herbal pain relief during pregnancy, and that Bae's surprise birthday party is Friday. You'll remember that I'm waiting for you to come home. And you'll remind yourself that nothing Spencer or anyone else can say to you will diminish your importance to all of us. Only you can take you away from us, and you're too wise, too loving a man to do that."

He wishes he could believe in himself the way she does, but there was too much bullying, too little affection in his formative years. When she leaves for work, so does he, dutifully recording his blood pressure after crossing the Storybrooke line.

His thoughts change course as Clara confiscates him just as soon as he steps off the elevator. "Two new faces this week," she bubbles (but beneath the effervescence is a grim determination to mend these children's spirits). "Winnie has gone home. She's started kindergarten. Her mom said she took her teddy bear for show-and-tell. Ellie's still with us. Angelo's appetite's slumped; see if you can coax him to eat. The newbies are a brother and sister, eleven and eight. He likes Minecraft. She likes Legos. Don't ask them about their parents. Nice shirt, by the way."

This Browning creation features comic book panels that relate a story of Archie Andrews and friends repairing, driving, then pushing a broken-down jalopy. Gold has no idea who these characters are, but the cartoon Archie kind of looks like Hopper and Betty kind of looks like Emma, so Gold almost likes the shirt. Well, he doesn't hate it the way he did the surfing Santas, anyway.

This show is more difficult last week's. The new boy won't interact (Gold promises him he'll have a Minecraft trick next week–if he can find out who or what Minecraft is. Not even that invitation to conversation provokes a response); he stares at the wall. His sister giggles over the Lego superheroes he conjures, but when he steps too close to her bed, she panics and only Clara can calm her. After the show, Gold drags Clara down to the cafeteria for a donut and a frank discussion. "I want to help these kids. How do I reach them?"

"You can't," Clara answers. "They'll need psychotherapy. Your role, in the short time they're here, is to give them a little respite if you can. They won't be here long."

He grips his cane in frustration. "CPS is taking them?"

"Temporarily. Their mother was killed in a car crash. Their father abandoned the family years ago."

"So they need a home?"

"You see? This is why you're right for this work," Clara replies. "You'd take them, wouldn't you? But an aunt is coming for them. Just give them a few minutes of laughter, if you can. Your shirts are a step in the right direction."

"There must be something–"

"You're a powerful man, Mr. Gold, and we're grateful for what you do, but even _your_ power is limited. Magic can't fix these children; it takes all of us, together."

How gently he's just been cut down to size. He rather likes having the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.

* * *

><p>Before returning to Bell's Corners, he stops in at Granny's in search of Ruby. He hasn't set foot in this diner since the day Granny declared her support for his banishment. Pickle gift aside, Granny stands by her signature of the exile petition: Ruby informs Belle that in Granny's opinion, the good stuff Gold has done in recent years proves Snow made the right decision: if he hadn't been driven out of town, he never would have changed.<p>

He'd rather not be here. The snide comments Granny used to cut when, in the curse days, he'd come in for his morning java, he suspects are lovetaps compared to the vitriol she probably spills these days, since his exile further fractured the Lucas family. But Belle asked him to run an errand for her, so face the matron he will–unless, of course, he gets lucky and it's Granny's day off.

He stands in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to indoor lighting. For a few moments, he can only see shadows, one of which is moving toward him. He freezes. "Mr. Gold." Oh crap, it's Granny.

He blinks hard to regain his vision. "I just came to bring these shoes for Ruby," he says quickly, showing Granny a box. "From the shop. They're vintage Salvador Sapena. Belle thought they'd go well with Ruby's wedd–". He gulps as a powerful pair of arms thrust around his chest and squeeze. The shock brings his eyesight back. It's Granny grabbing him, smelling of coffee and bacon. The embrace is, thankfully, short.

"Clara's a poker buddy of mine" is Granny's entire explanation. "You hungry? Lunch is on the house." She wheels about, barking at the window to the kitchen: "Classic burger for Mr. Gold. Medium rare. Extra pickles. And a chocolate shake."

He shrugs to himself. He would've preferred the pork chops, but he learned in childhood never to refuse a free meal. He sits down at a table and picks up a discarded newspaper. It's yesterday's: the _Mirror_has gone from a daily to a weekly. "Storybrooke pop drop," reads the headline: Storybrooke's population has fallen to under 2,000 as families seeking job opportunities have moved on. Gold should feel sorry for the queen as her kingdom's slowly pulling apart. He remembers what Emma said about the Nolans and the Golds needing to stick together. He decides to withhold judgment on that until it's actually tested on the Nolans' side.

Ruby dashes in and without hesitation sits down at his table. As she admires the shoes, he studies her: she's changed so, since the curse broke. She's level-headed and forthright, a strong counterpoint to the dreamer Archie: her spontaneity and sense of adventure have revitalized the otherwise shy and staid psychiatrist. A year ago, no one would have imagined them together, except Belle, but now they're seen as undeniably beneficial for each other. Gold wonders if people will ever perceive him and Belle in that way.

"Thanks for bringing the shoes," Ruby says. "Listen, I hope you'll drop in here more often. I know it's kind of awkward, but when they talk about you, people are starting to sprinkle in words like 'generous' and 'kind to kids' alongside the usual 'greedy bastard' and 'tyrannical son of a bitch.'"

He chuckles. "Ruby, of all people, I think you understand that reputation and the truth seldom walk hand in hand."

She nods. "You're either a hero or a monster, no in between."

"We are fortunate, you and I, to have found partners who can see through public perception."

"And help us see through it too."

* * *

><p>Three weeks have passed since Gold brought magic back. On the surface, nothing seems to have changed, except for the disappearance of his garden. Now his backyard is one giant sandbox, attracting small children with plastic pails and cats with full bladders. Belle immediately phones the landscape service and, even as, in the background, Gold derides phony grass, orders artificial turf.<p>

He limits his visits to Storybrooke to half a day once a week, just enough for the hospital and drop-ins with Treadle clients. His life is so full with the many projects he and Belle are involved in that entire days fly by without thoughts of magic. But when he is in Storybrooke–"under the influence," as Archie calls it–he feels so different physically, so much like the Rumplestiltskin of the Dark Castle days, that he's tempted to cross that baseline Archie described. He cheats sometimes, stealing an extra hour or two of feeling the difference power makes on his body—feeling younger, stronger, fooling himself into thinking he's immortal again. His chipped cup alarm clock is too easy to ignore, especially on those days when he crosses paths with those who still hate him: a sliver of fear, exactly the same as he felt the night Hordor forced him to kiss his boot, pricks him if he isn't vigilant against it, and then he needs his magic to give him confidence to stand up against his enemies.

"No, you don't," Archie argues. "You have a sword and a shield and a quiver full of arrows to protect yourself with, remember? You don't need magic for protection."

"Meditate," Won-Que reminds him. "Be still and no enemy can be victorious over you."

"Work in the garden," Blue suggests. "Making things grow calms the body and strengthens the soul."

"Talk to me," Belle urges. "Tell me what you're feeling. We can work through it."

"Screw 'em," Josiah says of the haters. "Don't need to have nothing to do with them anyway. You already got 'em beat. So screw 'em and go fishin' with me and Lionel." He throws his arm around his stepson's broad shoulders. At seventeen, the boy is just a half-head shorter than Jo; anyone seeing them together would assume they shared DNA.

Bae says, "Living well is the best revenge, and you, Pop, are living very well."

Everyone has a solution. All the solutions work in the short run. What he has trouble verbalizing is that it's not his enemies he dreads; it's Rumplestiltskin. It's the scaly, bug-eyed, snail, rat and duck conjurer who emerges when magic makes him the most powerful being in town. Another run-in with Spencer: Gold nearly sends a traffic light crashing down on the jerk's Hummer, but reverses the spell at the last minute–shamefully, not because he's learning to control his temper but simply because he promised Archie.

And provocation from Glass, whose Through the Looking Glass gossip blog throws up a not-so-blind article: "Which former Storybrooker's fairy tale marriage is proving a horror story as Wifey flees from him in terror, back into the arms of her cursed lover? Turns out this monster's predilections would make Mr. Fifty Shades of Grey blush. We used to assume his lifestyle was pure gold, but turns out he's just another tin-plated bully."

The night after an unsigned email sends Glass' blog to him and Belle, Gold awakens in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. He remembers vividly the dream he was having just before Belle's rolling over woke him up; he relates it in detail when he phones Archie the next day. He had dreamt he stood in a corner of an empty room. The floor is covered in broken glass and he's barefoot. In the distance, Belle calls urgently for him to come to her, but he's afraid of the glass.

"What does it mean?" he asks Archie.

"What do you think it means?"

"I suppose it's about me being cowardly and powerless. And I suppose the way to fix it is for me to introduce Glass to the business end of my cane."

"Mr. Gold. . . ."

"My dream is telling me I need to do what I would have done in the old days: walk on Glass. After I smash him."

"You're a lawyer, Mr. Gold: do the lawyer thing. Sue the bastard for libel."

"Until he names names, I don't have a case. Besides, a long, drawn-out lawsuit's not half as satisfying as a few minutes with my cane."

"You're not really going to pursue violence, are you?"

"Only in my daydreams, Archie," Gold sighs.

"What are you going to do to deal with this insult?"

"Meditate in the garden, then talk to Belle, then go fishing."

"Very good, Mr. Gold."

"Yeah. But Archie, this good guy business takes all the fun out of having enemies."

* * *

><p>The Charmings throw a modest Thanksgiving party in their apartment and include the Golds, now that they can do so legally. Snow even invites Moe, as Henry's step-great-grandfather.<p>

Gold feels sorry for Snow, remembering the grand parties her father threw, the exotic foods, the orchestras, the jewels and gowns. But this is good too, sitting around card tables, passing bowls of mashed potatoes (from Emma), string beans with almonds (from Moe); platters of rosemary rolls (made from scratch by Belle) and ambrosia (by Snow); and a massive turkey (roasted by David). They talk about safe topics, wash the dishes together and watch _The Wizard of Oz._ The Golds offer to host a Christmas Eve party. The grin on Henry's overly kissed cheeks makes the effort to be congenial worthwhile.

"We're getting there," Belle comments, climbing into the car and settling a foil-wrapped platter of leftovers on her knees. "Someday I'll be able to look Snow in the eyes and think 'Henry's other grandma' instead of 'our exiler.' "

"We'll get there," Gold agrees. "Are you happy, sweetheart?"

She watches the trees roll by as they cross the town line. Gold feels his body suddenly go still as the magic drains from it. He settles back into the driver's seat.

"When I was a little girl, I daydreamed about my future. I imagined myself traveling the world, meeting all sorts of people, seeing strange and mysterious things. I knew my father would arrange a marriage for me, but I dreamed he would betroth me to a kind man who loved learning and adventure and children–and me." As she turns to him, moonlight gives her face a heavenly glow. "Rumple, you gave me everything I dreamt of, and a love so strong it takes my breath away."

He gives her palm a kiss.

"Are you happy, Rumple?"

"I have everything I need," he answers carefully. "You and Bae and Emma and Henry have made me happier than I ever could have hoped."

After all their years together, she can hear what he's not saying. "But?" When he doesn't reply, she prompts, "Is it the magic? Do you want more?"

He shakes his head and shrugs at the same time. "My life is full. It's enough, more than enough, and what I don't have, I don't miss. But when I'm in it, when I'm inside the magic—I'm sorry, Belle. It feels. . . like me."

"But it's not healthy for you."

"No." He stares at the road. "It's not. Is this what recovery is? Does an addict have to lose his identity to get his life back?"

She looks at him with sympathy, but without an answer. "Give it time, Rumple. It hasn't been that long since you brought magic back."

He sighs. "I need to get away, clear my head. Want to go to New York this weekend?"

Belle smiles and squeezes his knee.

* * *

><p>He's dreaming that it's his birthday and his family is throwing him a surprise party in his old shop. Fran's baked a cake, Jo's brought a tub of ice cream, Bae and Emma and Henry have brought balloons and gifts, and Belle throws her arms around his neck to kiss him. Everyone applauds. "Now, conjure us up something to drink," Belle requests.<p>

"Of course, dearie." He bows low, and when he straightens he snaps his fingers. Everyone's watching, waiting, and Henry's declaring his thirst, but nothing happens. Gold's face crumbles and he snaps his fingers repeatedly, yet nothing happens.

Then Henry snatches a fairy wand from a counter display. Cracking it over his grandfather's head, he transforms Gold into a snail. As the snail frantically attempts to slither away, Henry raises his foot.


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter 60

Gold is proud of his recordkeeping, always has been, even when he was a dark sorcerer. In those days, he kept detailed lab reports on every experiment and complete histories of every deal he made. These days, he has neatly penned ledgers of all his sales and purchases, all his rent receipts, all his payments to maintenance workers, all his shop inventories from the very beginning. Any of his files could win a prize for accuracy, completeness and legibility, but the pride of his records, as far as he's concerned, is his tax records: income, sales and property.

The same devotion that he has given his business and personal records, he has given to the records of the nonprofit he runs with Bae, Treadle. Ask him how much Treadle paid for pencils in its first year of operation and Gold can produce the answer in a matter of minutes, thanks not only to the Quickbooks software that Bae coerced him to switch to, but to his own attention to detail. Twice a month, Gold shuts himself up in his office for an entire day and works on the records for Treadle, Gold and Dove Antiques, the properties he still owns in Storybrooke, and his and Belle's income. When he emerges at dinnertime, he struts—he's not conscious of it, but Belle points it out—with as much pride as if he's just finished writing a Pulitzer Prize-winning book.

He keeps his paper records locked in file cabinets and his computer files protected by fourteen-character passwords. He's always taken these precautions, though, of course, in the old days his records were magic-protected. Belle asked him about it once, as she was cleaning his file room: why bother, when hardly anyone ever came to the Dark Castle anyway, and for the few who did, they couldn't have entered the tower in which he kept his records without his lowering the wards. Only he and Belle and Bae could get in (and it seemed unlikely Bae ever would). As he considered her question, he cocked his head toward the ceiling. At last he confessed—because by this point in their relationship, he almost trusted her—that while the Dark One was indeed the most powerful mage ever, someday there may come one who was darker and more powerful, and Rumple didn't want his life's work to make the new wizard's life any easier. "I had to work for it; so should he."

"Or she," Belle had added, and with a shrug he allowed, "Or she." For just a second he pondered how powerful Cora could have been if she had started her magic career in her childhood—and, more importantly, if she had cared more about magic than about social status.

Twice a month, Gold devotes an entire day to his records, the only exception being his and Belle's year-long honeymoon. During that year, he left the maintenance of his records in the capable hands of accountant Wharton Scrooge. Even so, Gold phoned in weekly for updates from Scrooge, who gleefully reported ever-rising profits. "You're a control freak," Belle observed. "You're paying the man very well to handle your bookkeeping, so let him."

"Just want to keep my hand in," Gold pleaded.

"Well, there are worse habits than excessive recordkeeping, I suppose."

* * *

><p>"Our favorite former Storybroker–pardon me: Storybrooker–is raising cain–or should that be 'cane'–again, according to his neighbors. Late-night shouting matches between this penny-pinching miser and his spendthrift wife have disturbed the peace in the tiny hamlet across the bae–pardon me: bay. That's no tickle fight, the neighbors are reporting to the local gendarmes; sounds of smashed crockery and shattered glass are sometimes accompanied by slaps, punches and cries. How to get away with not-yet-literal murder? Take a lesson, kiddies: simply marry one of the constables into your family, where your dirty little secrets will be locked away–like our former golden boy should be. Signing off, your intrepid Mirror on Storybrooke." –Though the Looking Glass<p>

* * *

><p>"What are you going to do about it, Mr. Gold?"<p>

"Not a damn thing, not one f– damn thing!" Gold shouts as he paces Archie's office. From his hands emanates a purple light. "One flick of my little finger and I'd send him back into that damned lamp–no, into a jar of turpentine, for the rest of eternity. No, I'd change him into a rat and drop him into a pit of cobras." Out of breath, Gold stops pacing. Pongo whines and Gold sinks onto the puffy couch.

"Rant and rave all you want, as long as it's just words," Archie says calmly.

"Yeah, yeah," Gold sneers. "I promised you and Rumplestiltskin keeps his word."

"So what are you going to do with this latest provocation, Mr. Gold?"

Gold scrapes his hands through his hair. "Meditate, talk to Belle, weed the garden."

"It's December."

"So I'll conjure a garden, then I'll weed it."

"No magic used in anger, Mr. Gold."

"Good gods, Archie, even St. Augustine got pissed sometimes. 'Hope has two beautiful daughters: their names are Anger and Courage.'"

"He was talking about moral outrage at injustice, not temper tantrums over gossip blogs."

"What do you expect of me? I'm just a human, for gods' sakes."

"No, you're not." Archie gestures at Gold's glowing hands. "Not as long as you can do that. You need to remember: 'With great power comes great responsibility.'"

Gold huffs. "Who's that? Kierkegaard?"

Archie smirks. "Spiderman."

Gold blinks at him, then bursts into laughter.

* * *

><p>After talking to Archie, his mood has leveled out. He fills the trunk of his car with Christmas gifts for Bae, Emma, Henry, Josiah and Fran, but he finds nothing suitable for Belle, so he sits in the park to think about it. He brushes snow off a bench, but not wanting his butt to get cold, he conjures a stadium warmer. He muses on her favorite things, and then he has a brainstorm: he conjures a snow rose for her, a rose made of pristine snow and ice. He encases it in a crystal so that it will never melt. It's a lovely thing, as lovely as she is, but then he remembers that in the Dark Castle, she complained that magic was "cheating" and she much preferred gifts from nature or from his own handiwork. In a puff of magic, he sends the snow rose to Clara's desk, with a silver bow wrapped around it. He gets up and traipses Moncton Street again, window shopping. He settles at last for silk shawl from Milady's Modes.<p>

By now his feet are cold and sore, and he's two miles from where he parked, so he transports himself back to the Caddy. As he drives out of town, he performs one last feat of magic for the day, just because he can: he conjures a carton of turkey eggs and pelts them at Regina's mansion, which still stands empty. It's a sophomoric thing to do, but he needs to blow off some steam. He makes certain before he chucks the first egg that he's not angry.

* * *

><p>That night, he dreams he's pitching magically produced dinosaur eggs at Charming, who's trapped inside the cage inside the fairy dust mine. . . . Until one of the eggs breaks open and a pterodactyl hatches and the bloody creature lands on Gold's head, pecks at his eyes and builds a nest in his hair.<p>

* * *

><p>"Isn't it a bit nippy to be fishing?" Browning, bundled in an overcoat and scarf, looks incongruous with a bait pail in one hand and a rod in the other.<p>

"Never a wrong time for fishin'. If it starts to snow, we just do our fishin' from the lodge," Dove says, stepping into the rowboat like a waltzer stepping onto the dance floor. "Fishin's not so much an activity as a frame of mind. And it's pronounced 'fishin',' not 'fishing.'"

"Don't worry about what you don't know. We'll teach you if you want to learn, but you don't have to. You don't even have to get your line wet if you don't feel like it," Gold is urging as Browning steps awkwardly into the rowboat.

"Some days, we don't even bother to bait the hook." Josiah picks up the oars as Gold unties the boat. "We come out just to be outside, listen to the radio–"

Gold adds, "Get away from people wanting favors, talk–"

"Drink a few beers, burp if we need to and not have to pretend like we didn't–"

"Eat food that our wives won't allow in the house–"

Josiah finishes with a shrug. "Just think of the great outdoors as one big man cave that doesn't smell like one."

Browning reaches into the ice chest and yanks the tab on a Bud. "All right then. You ready for a cold one, Mr. Gold?"

As the boat pulls away from the dock, Gold continues the lesson. "Two rules of fishing, Sam: rule one, convert all measurements to fishmeters. One inch equals one and a half when you report your catches to other fishermen. You know, like you do when you take a guy's inseam."

"You lie about the size?" Browning feigns shock.

"Not lie," Jo clarifies. "Embellish. Rude not to. You got to give the other guy something to hope for."

"And make a good story," Gold adds. "Rule two: no formal forms of address. I'm Rumple, he's Jo."

"I think I could like this."

The men float in silence for a while, except for the occasional plop of a line dropping into the water or the call-and-response of a tab being pulled, or the obligatory contented "uh huh," to which the proper response, Browning learns, is "yup."

At lunchtime (Cheetos, baloney and Little Debbies) Gold asks, "You gettin' the hang of it, Sam? Think you could design clothes for this lifestyle?"

"Yup."

"There ya go," Jo approves.

But when they pull back into the dock at sunset, Browning is just a bit addled from the sun and the beer. "Listen, Rum, I'm not suppose't say anything, but Spencer's lackey's been askin' questions about you."

Gold stiffens, the pleasant buzz he's been working on disappearing. "What kind of questions?"

"Your spending habits. What you buy, how much, how you pay, check or credit. He says Spencer's conducting some kind of investigation. Won't say what."

"Why? It's Mr. G.'s money. He can spend it how he wants," Dove says darkly.

Gold snorts. "That's going to be one boring investigation. I haven't even bought a pack of cigarettes or a _Playboy_, ever."

"I don't think it's a vice kind of investigation," Browning explains. "He was more interested in the prices than the things you buy."

"Rumple's the richest man in the state. He can afford it."

"Course he can. Just thought you should know."

"Thanks, Sam. Mr. Dove, it might be time to back to work."

* * *

><p>"Spencer's boy's been round to every place you spent more than a hundred bucks in the past two years." Dove throws down his pocket notebook. "List's there. It's like Browning said: he's asking how much and how you paid."<p>

Gold scowls. "'Richest Man in State Buys Suit' isn't much of a headline. If Spencer's looking to smear my reputation by proving I waste money, he clearly doesn't know me at all. I always get quality for my dollar."

"It's not all personal spending. The kid's talking to businesses G & D deals with, and Treadle."

Gold's eyebrows shoot up and he reaches for his phone. "We better get Bae in on this discussion. And Emma. She can make a few inquiries of her own."

* * *

><p>He's late. The kids will be upset; Clara will be pissed. He applies his foot to the gas pedal, but then the light at Keane and Rush turns red and he has to brake. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he feels the tingle creeping into his fingertips, he hears the dark whisper: <em>you're Rumplestiltskin. You don't have to wait for anyone. They wait for you.<em> With a flick of a finger, he reverses the traffic lights.

And a van coming south on Keane is barreling into a school bus coming west on Rush.

"Crap!" He flicks his fingers and the school bus elevates into the air to land safely beyond the van.

Immediately a red flashing light appears in Gold's rear view mirror. "Sh–." Gold pulls off to the curb, turns off his engine and drums his fingers as Richard Grayson steps out of the squad car and lopes over. Gold rolls down his window and is hit with a freezing wind.

Automatically, Grayson reaches for his pen and ticket pad, but then he hesitates. "I have no idea how to write up what you just did." Flabbergasted, the sheriff clicks his pen open and shut, open and shut. "Traffic light tampering by magic? Making a bus fly?"

Gold smiles sheepishly. "Yeah, I made a mistake but I fixed it."

"That was no mistake, Gold. That was intentional." Grayson writes in the pad. "Tampering with a signal light. Interfering with traffic. And if you say one more word, I'll add public nuisance."

Gold stares at the pile of flimsy papers he's being handed. He could make them disappear. He could turn Grayson into a bird, a robin maybe, then drive on to the hospital as if none of this happened. _Do it,_ the whisper urges. _You're Rumplestiltskin._

With a sigh he looks at the tickets, then turns the hand that's holding them slightly as his wedding ring catches the sunlight. Yeah. Wedding. Wife. Son. Grandson. Daughter-in-law. Friends. People who expect him to keep his word. Kids waiting at the hospital. Set a good example.

"I apologize, sheriff. I was wrong and I'll pay my fines promptly." Grayson seems to be waiting for more, so Gold adds, "And I'll drive safely from now on."

Wolf nods. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Grayson."

* * *

><p>Behind an armful of wrapped gifts, Emma backs in through the kitchen door. She's carrying a bag of bagels in her teeth; Gold removes it from her and sets it on the table. "Thanks for letting me store his presents here. Henry keeps his promise not to snoop, but he thinks it's fair game if he 'accidentally' finds a present while he's cleaning and it 'accidentally' gets shaken when he has to move it to dust behind it."<p>

Gold snickers. "Good to hear there's still a bit of the little boy in him."

"Well, his dad's just as bad. That's why Bae's presents are here too. Is Belle still in bed?"

"In the shower." Gold puts on the coffee.

"Bae took some Apple execs out for breakfast. Snooze!" After faking a yawn, Emma plates her bagels and pokes her head in the fridge. "Got any cream cheese?"

"Behind the mayo."

"Heard about that stunt you pulled yesterday with the traffic lights and the bus." Emma carries an armload of goodies from the fridge to the table. She whistles. "Talk about little boy pranks! Does Belle know?"

"Of course she does," Gold huffs, filling a pot with water. "I told her last night. Oatmeal okay?"

"Got some brown sugar for it?"

"Cupboard to the left of the stove. I, uh, had to explain how I got two tickets."

"You deserved 'em. Admit it, Pop."

"I did. I got mad and-" he twitters his fingers.

She looks at him curiously. "You don't get like that here. I mean, you cuss and fuss and stomp around, but I've never seen you violent here. The way you used to swing that cane around, back in Storybrooke, it was like a dom with a three-line whip. But not here."

"The magic makes a temper tantrum easy to clean up after."

"More than that, maybe. I saw that with Regina too. Without the magic, she'd still blow her top, but with the magic, she'd fall right over the edge. I wonder if magic's like steroids, overloading you with testosterone so when you're mad, you're the Hulk."

He's thinking of the violence in the dreams he's had since he brought magic back; he's also thinking of the chart Archie drew this week to demonstrate what happens to his blood pressure when he's "under the influence." He doesn't want to discuss it any further. It's almost Christmas; they should be talking about trimming trees and baking pies, yes? "You want orange juice or tomato juice?"

"Dodging the subject, Pop? Well, I can respect that. I do it myself. But give it some thought, huh? Magic, steroids, testosterone, tantrums. We can talk about what you're giving Belle for Christmas."

"She gave you some hints to pass along to me?"

Emma giggles. "You figured that trick out, I see. Her and I had a deal: I'd hint for her, she'd hint for me."

Gold pouts. "But I give good presents."

"Not bad, not bad, but they could stand improvement. You know what Bae gave me for my birthday? Snow tires for the Bug."

"That could be perceived as very romantic," Gold argued. "He's concerned for your safety."

"Oh my god," Emma calls him out. "You men will stick together even when the ship's sprung a leak and the water's up to your chins."

"OK, cards on the table. Bae wants a Patriots jacket. You can order it at the NFL Shop online."

"Belle wants a pair of Stella McCartney faux-leather ankle boots. You can order them on the Saks Fifth Avenue website." Emma releases a pent-up breath. "There! I like this 'cards on the table' thing. Saves us time for what matters." She raises her plate high, as if honoring it. "Bagels!"

* * *

><p>"How did you feel when you made that bus fly?" Archie asks.<p>

"Like might is right and nobody's mightier than me."

"How do you feel now?"

"Nothing." Gold shrugs. "Empty. I can make buses fly. I can change the world with my magic, but why?"

"What do you mean? Doesn't that knowledge please you, make you feel safe? Make you feel superior to others?"

"Used to. Now it's like the high doesn't get as high as it used to. It doesn't last. Besides, what do I want? Other than to get rid of a couple of pests, nothing. Nothing's missing from my life."

"A baby?" Archie prompts.

"Magic can't create a baby. Apparently, neither can I."

"So how do you feel about your powers?"

He shrugs. "I guess the thrill is gone."

"Do you find thrills anywhere else?"

"Those kids–their faces when I walk in, and after I've done a trick for them. Henry, when I watch him mow my lawn. Emma and her bagels. Bae when he's sitting in his chair in my kitchen. Belle after we've–you know." He blushes. "At my age, and with this bum ankle, that I can still. . . you know. Give her a thrill."

Archie reddens too and twists his wedding band. "Yeah. I get it. Ruby's ten years younger than I am."

Gold smirks. "I'm three hundred years older than Belle."

"I'd be thrilled too, if I were you. So, Mr. Gold, how do you feel about magic now?"

He considers the question. "It makes for an entertaining show. But for providing what a man needs, what he wants? Meh."

Archie chuckles. "And the next time you're frustrated by traffic lights?"

"I made a promise to Grayson. I keep my promises, Archie."

"Yes, Mr. Gold, you do."


	61. Chapter 61

Chapter 61

"How did I get roped into this?" Gold growls as he tugs at the white beard that's already making him itch. Even though Clara's assured him the entire suit, including the beard, was thoroughly cleaned after the last use, he has his doubts. "I used to be respected in this town."

"No, you used to be feared in this town. There's a difference." Belle is struggling to stuff his stockinged foot into a black plastic boot. She's panting and sweating, and he's tried to talk her out of helping him dress; "Let Whale do it. This is his fault." But she reminds him Whale's already occupied, and besides, it'll be so much fun afterward, undressing Magic Santa. When he's fully Santa-ized, he sits down with his three elves, Blue, Bernie and Ceecee, for last-minute instructions, as Belle surrenders herself to Ruby to be transformed into Mrs. Claus.

When they walk out onto the makeshift stage in the cafeteria, MC Henry wraps up his last joke of the evening and shouts, "And now, a man who needs no introduction: straight from the North Pole, Santa Claus!" The Clauses walk hand-in-hand into the audience, offering hugs and candy canes; behind them, the elves dance from child to child, delivering presents out of a sleigh pulled by two not-so-tiny reindeer: Jo and Whale in luminescent antlers and head-to-toe costumes sewn by Mr. Browning.

"Ho ho ho, merry Christmas, boys and girls! You've all been good children this year. Mrs. Claus and I are very proud of you!" Gold makes his voice deep; it helps to cover up the quaver in his throat. His favorite, Angelo, is upstairs in intensive care.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Belle kneel before the children in wheelchairs. She touches their hands softly, smooths back their hair and chats to them about the reindeer (who have been very naughty this year and may be getting lumps of coal instead of candy in their stockings) and the sleigh and how the toys are made. She's become an assistant in his magic act; it means so much to her to be with these children. Earlier this week he reciprocated by doing his Magic Santa at the library story time.

After his magic act, Ruby comes out in a red taffeta gown and as her husband plays piano, she prompts the crowd—parents, grandparents and hospital staff as well as kids—to sing along to an assortment of carols. Finally, the queen and the prince arrive, she in a white gown, he in a hunter green suit styled by Mr. Browning to match the red suit Rumplestiltskin had conjured for him, so many years ago. A shining sword dangles from his hip and he permits the children to touch the hilt. The queen settles onto a folding chair and reads "A Visit from Saint Nicholas" as the Clauses make the rounds again, shaking hands, hugging.

Belle gives extra time to a two-year-old with a heart problem.

When it's all over, the performers throw off their costumes in relief and join the hospital staff in the doctors' lounge for a nosh catered by Fran. Gold fulfills his promise to Belle by staying at the party a full ten minutes before he wanders off. She trails after him, perhaps to chew him out for being anti-social, but when she sees where he's headed, she catches up to him and silently takes his hand to walk beside him. First it's a stop at the nursery window, then up another floor to Intensive Care. They can't go inside, of course, but Gold searches for his little friend beneath all the tubes and wires, and he feels more at ease when he finds him sleeping. "I think I'll call Angelo's parents tomorrow, wish them happy Christmas," Gold murmurs. "And see if there's anything they need."

Belle grabs his arm. "Rumple, why are lights on that monitor flashing?"

"Crap!" Without thinking, Gold summons his magic and with a wave of his hand, brings Whale and a couple of nurses to this floor. Before they can protest, Belle is pushing the nurses inside, yelling, "The monitor!"

Gold seizes Whale's lapel. "I want to know as soon as you have news."

"That information is res–." A glare from Gold changes Whale's mind. "Fine."

Whale rushes into Angelo's room. Blocked by the staff's backs, the Golds can't see Angelo any more, and through the thick walls they can hear nothing. "I suppose we should go find out if his parents have been called," Belle suggests.

Gold nods and allows her to lead him to the nurses' station.

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, they're sitting with the Romanos in the waiting room. Belle fetches coffee for everyone and they struggle for a while to make conversation, then they all fall silent. At twenty minutes, Whale makes an appearance. "We'll have to operate tonight. We have a neurosurgeon choppering in from Portland."<p>

The Romanos look a little relieved; a specialist is coming. When Whale goes back to Intensive Care, the Romanos join hands and bow their heads. "Would you like to pray with us?"

"Of course," Belle says, accepting the offered hand. After a moment of hesitation, Gold joins in. He doesn't know the words to the prayer as the Romanos call upon St. Jude for assistance, but he thinks he can feel a tingling in his skin. Maybe his magic is offering its services.

A half-hour passes and Whale comes, pulling Gold, and only Gold, aside. "The helicopter can't take off. There's a snowstorm in Portland. Can you pop the surgeon over, like you did me?"

"My magic won't work beyond Storybrooke."

Whale curses. "We don't have anyone here with that level of expertise."

"Can't you do it? Your surgery's saved many lives."

"The tumor's situated at the base of the spine; it's very delicate work. I know what has to be done, but without a neurosurgeon to guide me—"

"Skype. I'll conjure a computer monitor over the operating table, large enough that the neurosurgeon can see what you're doing, and he can guide you."

"Can't your magic make the tumor disappear?"

"If I had that much knowledge and skill, no child would ever need a hospital. You can do this, Whale. You will do this."

"Maybe. . . " Whale is beginning to believe. "But—" he shows Gold that his hands are shaking. "I'm so nervous. It's a _child_, Gold."

"I can help with that too." He seizes Whale's hands and shoots a bolt of magic through them. The hands stop shaking. "Better?"

"Yeah. I can do this. Go on up to the operating room and magic us a computer monitor." He waves a Candy Striper over. "Ms. Martinez will show you the way. I'm calling my colleague." Reaching for his phone, he walks away.

"Mr. Gold!" The volunteer beams. "Remember me?" She's the young woman who jumped to Belle's assistance when the hospital was in chaos after the curse broke.

"I certainly do, Ms. Martinez. I wish we could be meeting again under easier circumstances."

"Later, we can catch up. Let's go to work." She links her arm in his. "Angelo is a favorite of mine, too."

* * *

><p>Mr. Romano dangles half-on, half-off on the short vinyl couch. He's asleep and snoring. With a flick of his finger, Gold stops the snoring and lengthens the couch. Romano rolls over, pulling his feet up from the floor.<p>

Mrs. Romano is trying to teach Belle how to embroider—a pleasant way to while away the time, she says; and she's had a lot of waiting time in hospitals. Belle pretends to be interested.

Gold is reading a book on his iPad. He's studying a chapter about herbs that can reduce post-operative pain. It's sunrise and the pale light coming in through the blinds causes glare on his screen, so he half-mindedly conjures a curtain. Then he remembers Belle is sitting across from him and he vanishes the curtain before Belle can chew him out. He shields his screen with a hand instead.

The elevator dings and Whale, his cap askew and his surgical gown damp, steps off. He's smiling. As he approaches Mrs. Romano to give her the news, he winks at Gold. "Who would've thought _you_ to be a techie, old man?"

"Same Fates that thought you to be a reindeer, I suppose."

"Belle, your husband deserves a scoop of ice cream. His Skype idea was brilliant."

Belle blushes.

"Mr. Romano." Whale shakes the man's shoulder, gets him to roll over. "Mrs. Romano. I expect a full recovery for your son. You can see him for a few moments tonight. For now, I suggest you go home and get some rest, and I'll do the same."

"Dr. Whale, you're a hero." Mrs. Romano kisses Victor's cheek. "Don't eat supper tonight. I'll bring you a plate of my famous shrimp linguini."

"Yeah, I did earn my pay today, didn't I?" Whale beams.

* * *

><p>Dove is waiting in the parking lot to drive them home. "Thought you'd be too tired," he says. "Fran and I will come back later for your car."<p>

"How did you know?" Belle wonders.

"A Candy Striper called me." Dove uses the rear-view mirror to look at his passengers. "Seems you've got quite a following now, among the local teens. Fangirls and fanboys, Ms. Martinez called them."

Gold smiles over at Belle. "Maybe this will score me some points with Henry."

"It scores some points with me," Belle purrs, cuddling against him. She laces her fingers with his and a small sudden frown creases her forehead as she looks down at his hand.

He whispers into her hair, "It was the only thing I could think of."

"The price of magic to save a life must be high," she remembers. "It had to be something you truly cherished." She raises his hand to her lips and kisses the now bare space on his fourth right finger. "Where did it go? Is there a way to bring it back?"

He shakes his head, turning his face toward the window to stare at the fresh mounds of snow that have fallen in the hours they've spent in the hospital.

Belle can't resist the call of a story, and she suspects there's one here. "You've had that ring as long as I can remember, in this world, anyway. I don't recall seeing it in the Enchanted Forest."

"I acquired it after we separated," he says quietly, then corrects himself. "After I threw you out." His eyes fix on something out there that doesn't exist here.

"You wore it constantly in this world." Her hand touches his knee gently. "Would you tell me the story?"

"It was called the Remembrance Ring. Long before I was born, the Far Northern Highlands were ruled by a man called Alured Eofghern: Alured the Eagle-Hearted. A man of vision and compassion, it's said, he reached out to kingdoms far and wide to form alliances that brought his people out of poverty and ignorance. He was beloved by his people, but in his younger years, his efforts to serve them took up all his time, leaving none for a personal life, and so when he came into his later years, he looked about him at all he had accomplished, and he was well pleased, but he had no heir to pass it all on to. He went then in search of a wife. Though he was nearing the end of his life—he was almost fifty—he donned the clothes of a common man and with his loyal squire, he traveled his lands, looking for a woman of the people, industrious, smart, practical, for these are the qualities he wanted to pass along to his heir. He was nearly sixty when he found her: a golden-haired, blue-eyed daughter of a physician with healing powers of her own. From the moment he laid eyes upon her, drawing water from a well, Alured knew this was the future mother of his children. He dropped from the saddle to his knees and proposed to her on the spot. The Fates were hard at work that day, it seems, because Dionisia recognized in him the heart of the eagle. This was the man she had been waiting for all her life. They were married the next day, and a year later, she delivered to him his heir.

"But life is fragile and fleeting, and a plague carried into the kingdom by sailors from the southern seas swept through the kingdom. Dionisia sent her child to live with her family far away, and so Sarvaric survived to ascend to the throne in later years. But Dionisia the Healer gathered her herbs and went out among the poor to fight the plague with the same courage her husband had shown. She broke the back of the plague, but not before she herself contracted it. As the church bells pealed in celebration of the coming of spring and the ending of the plague, she lay dying in her husband's arms. 'Forget me not,' were her last words, and so that he would always have something of her close to him, Alured captured her tears. On the third day following her funeral, Alured summoned a powerful sorcerer and asked him to fashion a stone of those tears. When he asked what price the sorcerer would charge, the sorcerer said, 'I do this in service to love.' The sorcerer added just a drop of magic, and thereby created the stone, which for the rest of his days, Alured wore on a chain around his neck.

"The stone bore a magical power derived, not from the sorcerer's magic, but from the magic of love. The stone would change color in the presence or absence of true love, and so anyone who wore it could always find his beloved, and once found, the wearer would never forget her. A later possessor of the stone had it fashioned into a ring."

"Like Snow's ring," Belle suggested.

"Exactly. I stole the idea for her ring's enchantment from the Remembrance Ring. I did not, however, steal the ring; I bargained for it. It was a hard bargain, but I gladly paid it. Once I had the ring, I enchanted it with your tears, which I'd extracted from that tasseled pillow I gave you, after I brought you to the Dark Castle. At the time I took those tears, I didn't know what you would come to mean to me: I simply wanted the tears of a pure-hearted maiden, because they're a powerful ingredient for certain spells." He blushes a little as he glances at her, then returns his gaze to the window.

"What price did you pay for the ring?"

He spits the word: "Prison. A year in Charming's prison. In the year she was preparing to cast the curse, Regina needed to keep me under her thumb, or so I convinced her; I didn't want her to leave me behind when she cast it, as she was tempted to do. So I made a deal with her: if she would bring me Alured's Ring, I would remain at her beck and call in the year preceding the curse. Regina has never been a history buff, has no curiosity about antiques, so she was unfamiliar with the legend of the ring. She thought it was simply some old and rare bauble, so she stole it and gave it to me. But Regina's never fully trusted me, so her idea of keeping me under her thumb was to imprison me in the dwarf mines, where the fairy dust would block my magic. I agreed to it—one of my many goofs. I expected it would only be a few days; the curse was completely written; she need only gather the last ingredient to cast it, but it took her five months. I thought, 'It's Charming; how bad can his prison be? After all, when he locked Regina up, he gave her an entire tower with a soft bed and books and three hot meals a day.' I still haven't figured out why he decided to play prison warden with me. "

He swings around at last to face her. "I wore that ring constantly from the moment Regina brought it to me. Charming's guards were afraid to get close enough to me to steal it, I suppose. Through the ring my memories of you were perfectly preserved. It was both torture and comfort to me."

"Because Regina had told you I was dead."

"That's why the ring was so precious to me. While there was no magic in this world, the magic of the ring lay dormant, but I knew that once I brought magic here, the ring would restore my memories of you, every detail of every moment we'd had together. Of course, once the curse broke, I learned I had something better than the ring." He runs his right hand across the fourth finger of his left. "And now I have this ring so that I will always find you. Losing Alured's Ring, then, was a sacrifice, but not a tremendous one."

"You gave it up for a child you barely know. I'm proud of you, Rumple."

He shakes his head. "I'm a father. Another kid's father helped my son when he was cold and hungry; I couldn't walk away from this boy, when I had the power to help."


	62. Chapter 62

Chapter 62

_Po: "To know love, be like a running brook, which deaf, yet sings its melody for others to hear. Feel the pain of too much tenderness. Awake at dawn with a winged heart, and give thanks for yet another day of loving. Empty yourself, and yet be filled. An old man tells you, this is how to know love."_

Through the Looking Glass: "Poll: Most trustworthy person in Storybrooke. 61% Queen Snow, 32% Prince David. Least trustworthy: 94% Rumplestiltskin. 4% Dr. Whale."

Storybrooke High School: "Poll: Cutest guy in Storybrooke. 52% Prince David. 43% Mr. Gold. 2% the SB football team."

Belle finds Gold laughing so hard he drops his iPad in the oatmeal.

* * *

><p>Thinking back, Gold realizes all that fanboyfangirl admiration—which lasted all of two weeks before the kids moved on to another, younger hero—went to his head. That, and old habits: he'd had nearly four hundred years of magic-protected health, after all, and with magic coursing through his bloodstream again, naturally, he'd felt (not _thought_, because, truthfully, he didn't give it any thought) protected again, if not invincible.

And maybe, part of the problem is he's cosseted by love.

So, on Christmas morning, after all the gifts are unwrapped—he's blessed with riches untold, he reminds himself as he sits among the torn wrapping paper and shiny bows, and all the love and laughter—his family retreats to the porch to watch Henry and Bae build a snow castle. Periodically Gold jumps up to check on the progress of the turkey, or Belle jumps up to start the potatoes; their quiet is further interrupted by phone calls wishing the Golds happy holidays. Gold reflects on his cursed Christmases, spent accompanied only by his ledgers (and sometimes, a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue). Whatever he's done to deserve all these wonderful people in his life, he'll never figure out. Last night, when he expressed this sentiment to Belle, she answered with a paraphrased quotation: "Home is 'something you somehow haven't to deserve.'"

As he's sitting there, listening to his progeny play, his thoughts wander to the kids who are in the hospital today. Visiting hours have been extended; still, the children will have to remain in bed, quiet and alone, for the remainder of the day, when their families leave. The duty staff will do all they can to make the children comfortable in spirit as well as body; still, there's much to do and little time to spare just sitting and talking with a child.

Life isn't fair. Love needs a partner to fight some of its battles for it.

"What are you thinking?" Belle asks softly. She smells of vanilla and cinnamon and apples from all her baking; he's tempted to lick her neck. "You're a million miles away."

"Thirty-five."

"The hospital," she surmises.

With an apology at the ready, he turns to her, but she waves his apology away. "Would you like me to go with you?"

"No, stay with our guests. I'll be back before the turkey is ready to carve." He stands, starting to go inside to change into his surfing Santas shirt. "Am I disappointing you?"

Her eyes are sparkling. "Just the opposite."

The staff greet him when he walks in, as if he's expected, and they pass along little bits of information about certain children, as they always do ("Colby won't eat his green beans. See what you can do." "Felix has a case of cabin fever. He's been cooped up for two solid weeks." "Marie's having surgery tomorrow. She needs some extra hand-holding."). Gold makes his rounds, providing whatever he can by the children's requests: some want to see tricks, some want to play games, some ask for stories (he tells them Enchanted Forest histories disguised as fairy tales). Some are too ill for interaction; all he can do is hold their hands and stroke their foreheads.

The Romanos are in Angelo's room. They welcome Gold like an uncle and feed him sugar cookies shaped like Christmas trees.

"Is this all?" Gold asks Jenny Martinez. "All the children?"

"There's one on the fifth floor, but she's in iso. She has measles and pneumonia." Gold pushes the call button on the elevator and Jenny protests. "You're not going up there, are you? She's contageous."

"Not to me."

"But Mr. Gold, measles to an adult, especially one as old as you, can be dangerous."

"Magic, dearie." He waves farewell as the elevator opens.

* * *

><p>On the last day of the year, he awakens with an ear ache and sore throat. Belle brings him aspirin and a glass of water. When he starts to change out of his pajamas, he discovers red bumps on his belly and chest. Belle pushes him back into bed and takes his temperature. "I'm sorry, Belle. I guess I won't be up for the Plocktons' New Years party."<p>

She shifts into nurse mode, a role she's played whenever his ankle has bothered him. "There'll be more parties. Let's make you comfortable until Doc arrives." She fetches him books, soup and his iPad. She enjoys serving him this way; it's the only comforting thought he has as he surrenders himself to the aches and itches. He complains throughout the morning; sickness seems so much worse to him because he hasn't experienced it in four centuries.

Doc diagnoses him with a single glance. "Measles. You're going to the hospital."

"Hospital? For measles?" Belle exclaims.

"For adults, measles can be dangerous. Especially for seniors—"

"Senior?! Now wait a minute, dearie."

"Rumple isn't a senior."

"And for men who want to become fathers."

"This shouldn't be happening. My magic should've protected me from any illness," he grumbles. "It's never let me down before." Belle gives him a frown, reminding him that, indeed, his magic has disappointed him from time to time. First his garden, then his ring, now his health. The price of magic in this world has inflated: even magic seems subject to the weak economy. Or maybe he's just begun to notice, now that he's the one paying. Maybe magic isn't such a good deal after all.

Gold acquiesces. "Hospital. But I'm not going to wear one of those peekaboo gowns. Belle, pack my blue silk pajamas."

* * *

><p>He's half-asleep, as worn out from the parade of visitors (all of whom have had immunizations; why hadn't the curse given him the standard shots too?) as from the illness. Most of the hospital staff ignore the rules for visitors, in his case—in fact, some of the biggest rule violators are hospital staff. Henry brings him his iPad and shows him the <em>Good Morning, Storybrooke<em> coverage of Gold's progress. Gold groans at this: he's embarrassed enough, but to have the entire town know he, a grown man, has contracted a common childhood illness just heaps on the humiliation. The cherry on the cake is when photos of him with a thermometer in his mouth and a nurse smearing a lotion over his bare chest leak out.

Sidney Glass has the audacity—and the stupidity—to claim the hospital is covering up for him, that it's really an STD he's contracted. Josiah's face is mottled with anger when he hears this news; the big man turns on his heel without a word.

"Josiah! Where are you going?" Gold tries to call him back, but Dove walks out.

"When he gets like this, there's no stopping him," Fran remarks. "Fortunately, he seldom gets like this."

"Should we go after him?" Bae frets. "If he attacks Sidney, he might get arrested."

"I'll tell you a secret, Baelfire," Fran offers. "Jo has never actually hit anyone. All he has to do is convince them he might. I think we've seen the last of 'Through the Looking Glass.'"

* * *

><p>"Knock, knock!" Cindy Romano leans in through the doorway. A shy grin is plastered on her careworn face. "Can we come in?" Her husband appears at her side; he's pushing Angelo in a wheelchair. In turn, Angelo is pulling his IV drip along with him. "Don't worry. We've all had the measles," Angelo declares.<p>

"Buddy-boy!" Gold calls at the same time Angelo greets him with "Mr. G.!" Gold motions and the family approaches his bedside. "How you doin'," Angelo Senior offers a rough handshake, then remembers that he's shaking hands with a sick man and, embarrassed, loosens his grip. Cindy bends in a little as if to kiss Gold's cheek, then remembers the recipient is the Meanest Man in Two Counties, so she settles for a pat on the shoulder. "Hope you're feeling better," she says. "We heard what happened. And why. That was awful sweet, that you risked yourself like that for the little girl."

"It was foolish," he corrects. "Next time I'll do my magic act from behind a glass partition. But I'm going to be released tomorrow, so I haven't been punished too severely for my foolhardiness." At least, not yet. Tomorrow, before he's discharged, he'll undergo a small test to learn the measles' effect on his sperm count. Gold doesn't want to think about that. He changes the subject. "How are you doing, Angelo?"

The little boy is practically bouncing in his wheelchair. "I got something for you!"

"When he heard you were sick, he wanted to do something to make you feel better," Senior explains. "Go ahead, Junior, show 'em."

Angelo scoots his wheelchair forward until he can reach across the bed. He holds his hand open. "Nothing in my hand. See?"

"Not a thing," Gold agrees.

"Now watch." The boy darts his hand toward Gold's left ear. "Abracadabra!"

Gold holds his breath. The coin Angelo is supposed to produce from Gold's ear is on the floor in the corridor. It must have fallen from Angelo's sleeve when he drove his wheelchair over the threshold. After all he's been through, the kid deserves a break, so without even the smallest of moves or change of expression, Gold transports that coin into Angelo's fingers.

"Ta da!" The boy displays his coin proudly and his parents applaud.

Gold lowers his head in a bow. "Welcome to the brotherhood of magic, young wizard."

Angelo is generous in victory. "You can keep the coin, Mr. G."

"I will do that, in remembrance of the debut of Angelo the Amazing." Gold accepts the coin.

"I got to go to therapy now, Mr. G." Angelo's grin wavers. "But Dr. Whale says I can come back at lunchtime and eat with you." He winkles his nose. "We're having broccoli."

Gold wrinkles his nose too. "I hate broccoli. But I've learned that if you're busy talking while you're eating, you don't notice the taste so bad."

Angelo thinks that over. "I guess it'll be okay, then."

* * *

><p>"Oh no, we can't have this," the new nurse protests. "This is highly irregular." She bumps the door into Josiah as she pushes it open. "You know the rules, Mr. Gold: two visitors at a—" Eb Bell steps to one side and in the process, steps on the nurse's foot. "Sorry, missus." The nurse tries to shove her way through the crowd to get to Gold's bed. "People, people, I need for you to clear out! I have to take Mr. Gold's vitals!" Eleven people are crammed into this room—some of them bearing flower baskets, balloons or candy—one of them, a teenage boy, even has brought a pink teddy bear, as if the Meanest Man in Two Counties would be caught dead cuddling such a toy.<p>

"He's supposed to go home this afternoon," the nurse pants, just barely dodging an elbow in the eye. "We can't discharge him 'til I've taken his—people, please!" Most of these people she recognizes as patients or parents of patients; most are children.

Somewhere deep in that crowd is a small, slight man in silk pajamas, lying on the bed. The nurse can't get to him for all the rule violators crammed in here, and she can't make herself heard over their chatter. "I know you all wanted to be here to see him go home, but—ooph!" An elbow smacks into her shoulder. "Sorry, ma'am!"

One of the visitors, seeing the nurse's distress, takes command. She thrusts her pinkie fingers between her lips and whistles shrilly. "Awright, listen up! Everybody shove over. Clear a path, people! Six steps to your right. Ready, harch!"

The room suddenly quiets except for giggles. Eleven bodies move in a unified motion to the south side of the room and a direct path to the head of the bed is cleared. "Thank you, Sheriff Swan." The nurse regains her dignity by flicking a thermometer with great energy and thrusting it into Gold's mouth with great authority.

"That's Deputy Swan-Gold," the self-appointed room monitor corrects.

The nurse straps a blood pressure cuff onto Gold's arm. "Everybody, quiet," Bae advises. "You'll get Pop's blood pressure up and then he can't go home."

"Good grief," the nurse mutters. "I heard you were the most hated man in the state, but I never knew a man to have so many friends."

Gold's gaze passes from face to face. "I never knew either," he whispers. He can't grasp it; all these people showing up for his release, they're surely here in support of Belle. But as he looks at each in turn, he can chart the progress that his own relationship with that person has taken. Each of these eleven people matters to him, and given the amount of time they've invested in him, it's not so far fetched to think each considers him a friend. How he got from the misanthropist he was to the tightly connected man he is now eludes him: none of these friendships was planned, none pursued for gain: how very unRumplestiltskin of him, to have allowed people to get close, truly close, and not have wrung a price out of the relationship.

If he needed help, any of these people would provide it without hesitation or charge–and he'd do the same. This, he thinks, is true power, not the purple stuff dancing on his fingertips.

Finally the nurse, leaning over her patient, can make herself heard. With a satisfied smile she finishes her work, just in time for Dr. Whale to make an appearance. "Good afternoon, all," he says, unperturbed; after all, he's not the one who's supposed to enforce rules. The nurse unstraps the cuff, removes the thermometer, writes some numbers on a clipboard and shows the clipboard to Whale, who makes thoughtful noises until at last he addresses the patient. "Mr. Gold, you may go home today."

To shoulder pats and handshakes, Whale vacates the room. Everyone starts chattering again, but Emma barks them down once more. "Okay, people, you want the man walking out of here in his jammies? Clear out so he can dress. On your way out, check in with Henry here for your appointed time for a home visit."

"Line up now, no pushing," Henry orders, leading the crowd out into the lobby. He's got a clipboard of his own, which he uses to call out assignments: "Mr. and Mrs. Dove: seven p.m. to seven-thirty. Mr. and Mayor Bell: seven-thirty to eight. Fairies: ten a.m. tomorrow. . . ."

"You'd think I was the king of something," Gold mutters to his wife, who's brushing his hair.

"King of our hearts, dear," she amends. "You need a haircut."

He seizes her wrist and she sets the hairbrush aside. "Belle, what if I'm. . . what if the measles. . . Suppose my swimmers can't swim any more?"

She frowns in confusion, then her forehead clears as she catches on. "Oh."

"Maybe I was hasty to dismiss adoption as an option. Maybe our friends would speak for us, vouch for my fitness as a father."

She presses her forehead against his. "You have a judge who's tried dozens of custody cases who'll speak for you, I know it. You have a sheriff and a deputy and a mayor and three nuns and a queen and a prince and doctors and nurses galore. You have a psychiatrist who'll stand up for you. And you have a son and grandson who'd gladly testify for you. What social worker could turn us down, with supporters like that?" She strokes his hair away from his face. "You were meant to be a father, and I was meant to be a mother. It's going to happen, I believe it."

He sighs and swings his feet to the floor. "Let's go home."

* * *

><p>On the second day of his return home, Belle lays down an order–and as sweet as Belle is, when she lays down an order, it gets obeyed: visitors will be welcome in the Gold home starting a week from now. During the next week, her husband is to rest. There were just too many drop-ins of late, and too many of those folks brought work with them (even if it was all brain work, still, it had taxed him, robbed him of needed rest, she feels). He pulls a mouth at her, but he doesn't dare argue when she has That Tone in her voice. "We'll work on that in a week," he apologizes to Blue, Bae, Mayor Bell, Clara, the clinic director.<p>

* * *

><p>Three days after Gold has returned home, Doc drops by to bring some news. Once the physician has gone, Gold calls Belle into the bedroom.<p>

"So are you better?"

He nods, a lascivious grin spreading across his now clear-skinned face. "More importantly, the lab report came back. They're swimming."

"Huh?"

"Kiss me, Belle, and let's get back to work on making a baby."

"Rumple! You're supposed to be a sick man."

* * *

><p>"What are you doing out of bed?" Belle asks as she carries in a sack of groceries.<p>

"I'm developing bed sores," he grumps. "I didn't go outside. I haven't even changed out of my pajamas. I've just been watching TV and surfing the Net."

"Anything new?"

"Mr. Glass has been strangely quiet of late," Gold comments. He helps her unpack the sack. "Mmm, steak tonight?"

"You need your protein. Yeah, I noticed he hasn't updated his blog this week. Ruby says he hasn't been seen around town, either."

"I'll send Jo over to his apartment, check up on him. His rent's due, anyway. No ice cream?"

"You know sugar elevates your blood pressure. I bought sugar-free Jello instead."

"Aw, Belle. Have you no mercy for your poor, sick husband?"

"You'll thank me when you blow out ninety candles on your sugar-free birthday cake."

* * *

><p>Gold was in the hospital three days. Doc orders him to remain at home, resting, for another seven. Bernadette takes over his magic shows; Bae handles his fundraising responsibilities and everything else is split between the Doves, the nuns and Belle. By the fifth day, Gold is crankier than ever. His pain is gone, but his boredom replaces it. He fills his hours Skyping and studying Spanish so he can read articles sent by Arcani from Peru.<p>

* * *

><p>"Belle?"<p>

She strolls in from the laundry room with an armload of bath towels. "What is it?"

Gold is sitting in his study, behind his desk, with his laptop up and one of his drawers open. "Have you seen my Montblanc?"

Her eyes go wide. She knows how attached he is to that pen, as well he might be: the damn thing cost her $400 two Christmases ago. He's used it exclusively ever since for his record keeping. "Uhm, no, isn't it in its case, in your left hand drawer?" They both know she's stalling; she can see it isn't in the drawer. "I didn't take it, I promise."

"Sorry, sweetheart, didn't mean to sound like I was accusing you. Would you help me find it? It's the tenth of the month."

"Ah, that explains why Bae and Em didn't come round for breakfast. This whole town knows not to disturb you on Recordkeeping Day."

They search the study thoroughly. "You didn't leave it in the pocket of one of your jackets, did you?" She searches his clothes while he searches the kitchen. They meet up again, tired and frustrated, in the foyer. "Damn. My favorite pen."

"Well, there's a bright side," she tries to make him smile. "Now I know what to get you for your birthday."

They're interrupted by pounding on the front door. Their welcoming smiles fade when, right behind Emma, Wolf and two business-suited strangers enter. "Guess you're not here for breakfast."

Emma stares at the floor. "Sorry, Pop."

"Mr. Gold," Wolf says, sucking in a breath, "this is Special Agent Thom and Agent Lewinsky from the FBI. We've come to take you in. Sorry, man. We'll book you, and then you can make bail and come home."

Belle places her body between Wolf's and Gold's. "He hasn't done anything wrong. You know he hasn't."

"We'd appreciate your cooperation, ma'am," Thom says, but it sounds more like a threat. She nods to Lewinsky, who walks behind Gold's desk and disconnects the laptop.

"We'll help you fight this," Emma vows. "But for now, please—don't make us cuff you."

"I'm. . .going back to jail?" As Wolf recites the Miranda rights, Gold places both hands on his desk, as if to hang onto it. He tries to remember he's a businessman and an attorney, both positions of dignity, so he straightens and looks the sheriff in the eye. "What are the charges?"

"No," Belle interrupts.

"Embezzlement, fraud and tax evasion," Thom answers.

"Get an attorney," Emma urges as Wolf motions for Gold to step out from behind the desk.

"Who?" Belle throws her hands into the air. "He and Spencer are the only attorneys in the region."

"Not Spencer," Emma snorts. "He's the one who preferred the charges."

"We'll be taking all the computers in the house, Mrs. Gold. Tablets too. And your written financial records. Evidence. We appreciate your assistance in gathering them so we don't have to intrude too much," Thom says.

"There's a number in my Rolodex. Kevin Kamen, Boston." Gold speaks rapidly as Wolf leads him through the house to the front door. "Ask him to represent me. And come down to the police office in an hour." Gnawing on her lip, Emma yanks the front door open so Wolf and Gold can pass through. "Bring the checkbook." From the porch he adds, "On second thought, better bring the credit cards too." From the driveway, he adds, "And call Clara. Tell her I won't be in today." From the backseat of the patrol car, he adds, "And don't worry. We know who's doing this and why. We know he's a liar. And call Bae!"

Emma shakes her head. "Too late. There are agents at Treadle and your shop."


	63. Chapter 63

Chapter 63

_Caine: "If the jury cannot see innocence in my eyes, will they find it in a lawyer's mouth?"_

With much noise and haste, Belle bursts into the Bell's Corners jail. "Jo and Bae sent word: they'll come as soon as they can. They've been detained by the Feds," she informs Gold. "Digging through every nook and cranny of the shop and the Treadle office, for financial records. They just got done digging through our house." Belle wraps her arms around herself, as though chilled. "That's why it took me so long to get here." She spares a smile for Sheriff Wolf, Emma, and Gold's visitor and friend, Judge Fairfax of Storybrooke. The judge and Belle are acquainted as well, from the times Belle assisted the court in taking care of children during custody hearings. "Judge Fairfax! Have you determined Rumple's bail yet?"

"I'm sorry, I don't have the authority to set bail in this case," Judge Fairfax explains.

"Oh, of course," Belle nods. "It's a federal case. I should've realized. Guess I'm a bit rattled."

"I did make a couple of phone calls, however–informally, you understand. I can't exert whatever influence I might have; that could get us both into hot water. But what I found out is that the magistrate judge who will be determining your bail has already begun to make some inquiries about you. His name is Joseph Keaton and he'll arrive from Portland in four days."

"Four days?!" Belle yelps. "And Rumple has to stay in jail all that time?"

"I'm afraid so. Your case will be heard in the US District Court in Maine—if there is a case," Fairfax emphasizes the latter phrase. "Personally, I have doubts whether it will go that far. I know you, Mr. Gold: you know the value of what you have, and there's no way you'd risk it just to hang onto a few thousand dollars. More importantly, you have too much integrity to steal and too much pride in your name to commit fraud."

"Thank you, Your Honor." A lump in his throat prevents any further answer.

But Emma, ever practical, breaks in. "So can you help him? Maybe represent him in court? It's gotta help, right? To be defended by someone who knows him and believes in him."

"I wish I could." Fairfax's mouth flattens. "It's not permitted. Judges aren't permitted to practice law; it's thought that doing so would diminish our objectivity. Nor can I speak publicly on your behalf, but I can offer some off-the-record advice. For example, do you have representation?"

Gold nods. "Kevin Kamen."

Fairfax ponders. "Yes, he's as good a debater as he is an interpreter of the tax codes. Good choice. If he should happen to invite me to lunch when he comes to town, and if in the course of enjoying our meal, we happen to talk about cases in which defendants have been framed for tax evasion, there would be no conflict of interest for me there." The judge shrugs.

"So after Judge Keaton sets bail, what happens next?" Belle asks.

"About two or three weeks later, the preliminary hearing will take place in Portland; the feds will try to prove there's sufficient cause for a trial. After that, an arraignment, where a district court judge will hear Mr. Gold's plea. There will be some back-and-forth between the AUSA—that's the Assistant United States Attorney, kind of like a DA—and Mr. Gold's representation, with attempts to hammer out a plea bargain. If that doesn't happen—"

"It won't," Gold says firmly.

"No plea bargains," Belle agrees. "He's innocent and we'll prove it."

"Some months later, maybe five or six, there will be a trial, which will probably take a couple of days, maybe a week."

"That gives us time to fight this," Belle says, teeth gritting. She looks to the judge. "It shouldn't be hard: Rumple is a meticulous record keeper."

"I've seen the results of that in my courtroom," the judge agrees. "Be aware, however, the Feds wouldn't have brought charges if they didn't have something substantial. Ask yourself, Mr. Gold, not only who would want to frame you, but who _could_."

Emma lifts away from the wall she's been leaning against. As she's listened to Fairfax, she's been watching Belle and Gold, who are holding hands, seated together on the cot in the open jail cell. Gold is sinking into himself, his head bent, his hair hiding his face; Belle grips him like a rescuer reaching for a man drowning in quicksand. It's not the prospect of a conviction that's dragging him under, Emma understands him well enough to see that; it's the in-between, the time he will spend locked up until this nightmare is over.

Emma yanks the silver badge from her belt and hands it to Wolf. "I want a leave of absence."

Wolf turns the badge in his hands. "Let me guess: you're going to do some private investigative work. I don't know if I can hold your job open for six months, Emma."

"Then consider it a permanent absence."

"Emma–" Belle starts to protest, but Emma holds up a restraining hand. "Family" is all the explanation she offers. "Belle, give me the number of that Kamen guy. He's just got himself an unpaid assistant."

* * *

><p>Judge Fairfax takes her leave to make a few "informal" phone calls; Emma takes hers to begin her investigation of the most likely suspects, but not before Gold tries to persuade her not to relinquish her job. "You heard the judge. This could take months. And Bae doesn't make that much from Treadle; you'll need your paycheck."<p>

"Not to brag, Pop, but I'm one helluva an investigator. I just may get this case wrapped up before your Mr. Kamen winds his way out of Boston traffic." Emma's eyes are bright, and Gold realizes then that she's in her element, using her special skills to take care of her family. He knows exactly what that feels like; there's no way he'd take the feeling away from her. So he nods, thanking her, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder—for people as reserved as they are, it's their equivalent of a hug. "See ya, guys," she says, ducking out.

She passes Archie on the way: the doctor introduces himself to Wolf and explains he's come to check on his patient.

"Sure, go on in," Wolf invites: the cell stands open anyway. "Is there a condition I should know about? Medications he needs? Special diet?"

"We've been monitoring his blood pressure," Archie says vaguely, unpacking a blood pressure cuff from his medical bag. "Prehypertension." A small smile to Gold signals the latter that Archie won't be giving out the details about just when Gold's blood pressure has been rising. A patient is entitled to confidentiality, after all. "He doesn't require meds or a special diet—yet. Now if it doesn't violate policy, could I have a little privacy with my patient?" Archie nods to Belle. "And his wife."

"Of course. I trust you don't have any skeleton keys or hacksaws in that bag."

Belle clicks her tongue. "If you knew Archie, such a thought wouldn't even occur to you. He's the soul of integrity."

Chuckling, Wolf saunters off to his office and starts to work on his laptop. Once he's gone, Belle peeks into the medical bag. "You don't have any skeleton keys or hacksaws, do you, Archie?"

Hopper growls softly. "Belle! What do you think this is, the wild west? Besides, I have complete faith in your husband's honesty and in the judicial system—considering that we're not in Storybrooke. Now shush while I check Rumple's vitals." After the blood pressure, pulse, respiration and temperature have all been read, Hopper replaces his equipment in the bag and settles more comfortably on his chair. "Blood pressure's a little high, as might be expected. Cut down on the salt while you're here. Which, I trust, won't be long. Why aren't you out on bail yet?"

Gold explains and Archie grunts in reply. "Four days, huh? So much for speedy justice." Elbows on his knees, Archie leans forward and lowers his voice. "I know you have trouble with cages. If you experience flashbacks"—he's referring to Rumplestiltskin's time in Charming's underground prison—"meditate. I don't care if a dozen people are staring at you: sit down, close your eyes, focus on your breathing. If that doesn't help, call me. I don't think Wolf will interfere with a man's right to medical treatment, even if he is a prisoner." Archie thinks for a moment, then fishes a prescription pad from his bag and scribbles something on it; he tears the sheet off and gives it to Belle. "To help him rest. You can pick these up at any pharmacy."

"Sleeping pills?" Gold guesses. "Or some sort of sedative?"

"You could say that." Archie stands, picks up his bag and winks at them. "Ear plugs. I'll check in on you tomorrow." He pauses in the cell doorway. "Both of you." And then he's gone.

"He's right," Gold slips an arm around Belle's shoulders. "You need to go home and get some rest." When she opens her mouth to protest, he kisses her. "Go home, Belle. Have some dinner, put your feet up—_The Best of the Boston Ballet_ is on tonight. And when you come back tomorrow, bring me Title 26 of the US Code."

She tries to smile. "The tax code?"

"The tax code."

* * *

><p>As night falls, Wolf wanders back over to the cell. The door is closed, but not yet locked, and he leans against it. "I usually have Persie deliver the daily special, when I have a guest of the county, but Fran Dove beat me to it. She called a few minutes ago and asked if she could bring us—wait for it. . . beef bourguignon and crème brulee."<p>

Gold can't help but lick his lips. "Fran's crème brulee. . .heaven in a ramekin."

"She insisted the stew could be fully appreciated only if she served a bottle of Red Bordeaux too, but I had to draw the line at that, unfortunately." Wolf crosses one foot in front of the other, relaxing against the bars. "For the moment. But I told her, when this is all over, we'll take her up on that Bordeaux."

"You think we'll have something to celebrate," Gold surmises.

"I know it."

"Why?"

Wolf looks puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you think I'm innocent?" From anyone else, it would sound like an odd question, but it's been nearly four hundred years since the word _innocent_ was linked with Rumplestiltskin's name. Belle, Henry, Emma and Bae believe in him, but they have to. Archie, too: Gold pays him to accept his word. But the rest of his associates—the people he's called friends these past few years—they owe him nothing. Now that, for once, he's been accused of a crime he's never even thought about committing, what reason would any of those people have to believe him? The residents of Bell's Corners may just write him off as yet another rich guy trying to get away with a white-collar crime; the residents of Storybrooke will simply shrug over this footnote of a crime in the voluminous ledger of Rumplestiltskin's evil doings.

Wolf answers matter-of-factly, "I think you're innocent because you are." As if it's a stupid question. And then the Doves arrive with covered dishes and china plates and linen napkins and Wolf makes space in the interrogation room and drags in some extra chairs, and for an hour it's as if they're four neighbors sharing a meal, after which they will all shake hands, wish each other good night and go home.

It's as if these people think they're dining with a guy named Gold who owns an antiques shop and does magic tricks for sick kids—not the Dark One.

After the Doves have cleaned up the interrogation room, Wolf pats his belly and sighs and apologizes. "It's been a long day. Gotta go home to my wife and kids. Sorry, Gold, but without a deputy to put on night duty, I'll to have to lock you in. I'll be locking the front door too. Policy." He turns a key in the iron lock. As an afterthought, he tosses his cell phone in and Gold catches it. "Here, in case something comes up. Dial 'Sarah'—that's my wife's cell. Feel free to call your wife, if you want. I've got unlimited minutes. There's a shower in the locker room downstairs that you can use tomorrow: your wife can bring you some clean clothes. You want the lights on or off?"

"Off. Well, leave the hallway light on so I don't bump into anything."

"Sure." Wolf snaps off some lights. "Good night, Gold. I'll be back at seven with your breakfast."

Wolf has been gone quite some time before Gold finally stops pacing. A streetlight glows yellow through the small window, too far up to be looked out of; cars rumble for another hour or two, and an occasional voice can be heard, but eventually the street noises fade and there's nothing but the hum of the air conditioner. He wants to call Belle to wish her good night, but he can't figure out how to use Wolf's phone.

Gold strips down to his slacks and undershirt, pulls off his shoes and lies back on the cot—the mattress is thicker than the one in the Storybrooke jail. The pillow and sheets smell new. He makes a second pillow of his arms and stares at a streak of streetlight on the ceiling.

* * *

><p>He must have fallen asleep, because his body jerks in reaction to a noise and it takes him a minute to get his bearings. Once he's awake, he lies still, pretending to be asleep, as he listens to the scrape of a door in the back of the building, then slow, soft footsteps. He senses a shape behind him and smells a familiar cologne: Hugo Boss.<p>

In a single move he grabs his cane and swings to his feet. He flashes his teeth at the intruder. "Hello, George."

The deep voice strikes out in the darkness. "Hello, Rumplestiltskin."

"Now, dearie, the sheriff locked that door, which makes what you did breaking and entering." Gold's eyesight has adjusted enough to the dark that he can make out Spencer's form, an arm's length away from the cell. "For which you can wind up in here. I must warn you: I'm not much of a roommate." He wrinkles his nose. "Don't like to share."

"Well, you'll learn quick enough when you're sentenced to five years in the federal pen." Spencer tilts his head, and Gold follows the DA's gaze upward to the security camera. Satisfied that he's out of its range, Spencer relaxes into a satisfied smile and Gold resists the urge to curse. They both know the camera has no sound system.

"Good to see you back where you belong. Third time around for you, isn't it, Dark One? Or fourth? So easy to lose count."

"What do you want, George?" Gold forces a chill into his voice, but he's choking his cane as if it were Spencer's throat. "What do you expect to achieve with this frame up?"

Spencer feigns innocence. "Justice. The satisfaction of seeing a lawbreaker behind bars. And may I add, it is indeed satisfying."

"Is it some kind of deal you're after? Because if it is, you've gone about it stupidly."

Spencer casts a quick glance upward, to the security camera: as long as he stands back from the cell, he won't be caught on film. Dropping his voice, he repeats, "You should have left well enough alone, Dark One. Your meddling is what screwed up my arrangements with Midas and lost me my kingdom. Who did you think you were: Cupid? Breaking up my son and his betrothed to throw him at the feet of that tramp Snow White?"

"So that's what this is about." Gold reclines on his bunk, one foot crossed over the other, as if nothing in this little conversation bothers him. "What took you so long, Georgie? You're about thirty-three years late."

"Still satisfying. Here you are at last, out of reach of your magic. Now you're about to be stripped of everything you own. Watch how fast this town turns its back on you. Without your little kingdom here to shelter you, how long will you last? With your gold gone, how long will that pretty young wife stick around? And that leech of a son? You're going to find out what it's like when your son stabs you in the back, like mine did after you destroyed him." Spencer snaps his fingers dismissively as he walks out. "Rot in hell, Dark One."

Gold mutters to himself, "Spencer, you just saved Emma the trouble of making a suspects list. Not that we had any doubts about whose name to place at the top."


	64. Chapter 64

Chapter 64

Caine: _"Each waking moment is as a rung on an endless ladder. Each step we take is built on what has gone before."_

Wolf enters promptly at seven with a wire-handled bag in hand. "Morning, Gold. I stopped at Persie's for your breakfast." He hefts the bag. "So you do you want to shower first or—"

"Sheriff," Gold breaks in, "Albert Spencer broke in here last night. Came in through the back door."

Wolf lowers the bag to the floor and his eyes run up and down Gold's body. "Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Threaten you?"

"Not with bodily harm, no. But he admitted that these charges are a frame-up."

In unison they turn their heads toward the security camera. "I doubt if it caught him," Gold groans. "He was aware of it and stayed well out of range."

"Let's just check anyway." Wolf spins on his heel and makes his way to his office. "Maybe we'll get lucky." He hunches over the keyboard and monitor on a small table at the back of the office, the breakfast forgotten.

As Gold paces and waits, he second guesses himself. This blurting out of the news about Spencer isn't very Rumple-like; it is, in effect, a request for help. Something odd's going on in him, he thinks, that his impulse now is to seek assistance, particularly from a non-family member, or from someone who owes him nothing and therefore has no reason to offer help.

Other than the fact that it's the right thing to do. And not just because Wolf's job requires it. Gold stops and, running a hand through his hair, sits down on the cot to think.

Maybe it's because he didn't sleep at all. Maybe it's because for the third time, he's locked in a small cage like a stray dog that was picked up off the streets. . . a mangy, old, unwanted dog whose prospects look bleak. Without magic, powerless in the cage. His only recourse is to reach out to those who seem willing to assist.

The aroma of bacon drifts over from the bag on the floor. His stomach growls and he growls, feeling all the more powerless because he can't even fetch his own damn breakfast.

If he had magic, he'd transport himself right on out of this cage, this state, this country, take Belle with him, take refuge in China or Peru. Or both: summer in China, winter in Peru. Never come back here. Well, except for Henry's graduation and weddings and such.

No, he wouldn't. That would leave Bae and Dove as the only targets for Spencer's wrath. Magicless, encaged, but Gold is still useful to his family, if only as a target for the enemy.

He sucks a breath through his teeth. Mistake, that: now the aroma of bacon floods his mouth and teases his tongue, making him salivate.

Then he remembers something else from his morning routine: apart from the four days Belle was hiking the Inca Trail, this will be the first morning of their marriage that he hasn't greeted her with a kiss and a profession of his love. Thoroughly pissed off now, he kicks the chair and sends it flying against the bars of the cell. It falls over and Wolf spins around in his office chair to check out the commotion. Gold waves a dismissive hand and calls out, "Never mind. Just tripped, that's all."

In all the movement, something clatters to the floor of the cell. Gold leans over to pick it up—and then he howls. "Son of a bitch!" He's holding Wolf's cell phone.

Wolf's _iPhone_. With which, last night, Gold could have either A) phoned Wolf with a single push of a button, possibly stealthily, so that whichever Wolf answered the phone would have heard the conversation with Spencer; or B) recorded the conversation with Spencer. Now Gold kicks at the leg of his cot—another stupid move; he not only scuffs the Italian leather shoe, but also jambs his toe. "Stupid, Neanderthal, Luddite, freakin' ignoramus bastard!" he berates himself in a hiss, so that Wolf won't hear. If he weren't such a technology moron, Gold would have thought of this last night and would have proof of the frame-up and would be out of this cage just as fast as Wolf could turn the key in the lock.

He throws himself onto his butt on the cot, chest heaving. He fights to grain control of his temper; yes, he's lost out on a major opportunity, but he's still Rumplestiltskin, damn it. He'll think of something. Besides, he's innocent, for a change. All they have to do is get an accountant to look over those records they swiped. Besides, he's not so sure about point B: maybe iPhones don't have an external recording feature. Or an internal one, for that matter. Hell, Gold doesn't know the first thing about iPhones—that's why he can't even call Belle this morning and wish her good morning. His own phone (on the nightstand at home) is a Jitterbug he bought because he liked the big buttons.

Neanderthal, Luddite, freakin' ignoramus.

"Gold?"

He jerks his head up. Wolf's standing over him. He's so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't hear the cell door open. With Spencer waltzing into the jail big as you please, Gold's going to have to be more vigilant. Maybe he should've listened to those Lee Majors Bionic Hearing Aid commercials.

Wolf gestures to the doorway. "Come on. I got your breakfast set up in the interrogation room." The sheriff leads the way, sighing, "Well, the camera footage shows you talking and looking out of the cell, but not a hair of anyone else. So we can't even prove anyone came in, let alone Spencer."

There's a cup of coffee and an American breakfast waiting for him on the table. Gold pulls out a chair and seats himself with murmured thanks. He spreads the paper napkin over his knee and picks up the plastic spoon and the little pink packet of sweetener. Persie's known for the down-home goodness and hefty portions of her meals; presentation is not her forte.

"While you're eating I'm going to have a look at the lock on that back door."

"You'll find it undamaged, just unlocked. Forced entry isn't Spencer's style: lock picking is." Around a mouthful of scrambled egg, Gold watches the sheriff leave. . . leave him unattended in an unlocked room. What is it about the law enforcement officials in this region? First Emma, when she was Storybrooke's sheriff; now Wolf, trusting him, in effect, with the keys to the kingdom. Maybe Maine should start importing its sheriffs from Texas.

Gold eyes the front door. Despite his limp, he can move pretty fast when he wants to, and right now, he wants to. He needs to see Belle, assure her things will be okay, assure himself that she is okay and that Spencer didn't pay her a visit last night too.

That last thought drives him away from the scrambled eggs. He limps rapidly from the interrogation room, throws a glance toward the front door—but hurries back into his cage to pick up the phone. As Wolf returns, Gold calls out to him, "Hey, Ian? How's this phone work? I need to call Belle, make sure Spencer didn't harass her last night."

"Son of a bitch!" Wolf grabs the phone from Gold's hand and jabs at it. "I didn't think—I'm sorry, Gold. I should have—hello? Mrs. Gold? Ian Wolf here—no, no, he's—but are you okay? We had a—that's good. Well, we had an incident—here, you can talk to him. He's okay, I guarantee it. Just an incident—well, here." He passes the phone back to Gold.

After a brief conversation that ends with a promise for Belle to bring him clothes and his shaving kit, ASAP, and an exchange of "I love you's," Gold returns the phone with a red face. "I, uh, don't know how to shut it off."

Wolf pushes a key and slides the phone into his shirt pocket. "I'll call Grayson over in Storybrooke, get him to put a tail on Spencer."

Gold sighs. "George will be the model of discretion now. He made his point."

"You were right about the door. Unlocked, no sign of forced entry." Gold's growling stomach interrupts. "You want to go back and finish your breakfast?" Again, the sheriff leads the way to the interrogation room and again, Gold forks up scrambled eggs, now cold but still filling. "It's going to be hard to convince the prosecution that Spencer was here. Even harder to convince them to do anything about it. They're going to argue it was a careless backwoods sheriff who forgot to lock the door."

"But you believe me." It's a statement, not a question.

"I believe you. I'm going to hire some temporary deputies for round-the-clock duty."

"Spencer won't be back. And he won't try to attack me—physically. He's a bit of a coward, despite his size. It'll be enough for him to see me trade my Armani for an orange jumpsuit."

"He's gone to a lot of trouble to make this happen. What's he got against you?"

Gold ponders a moment. No one in Bell's Corners knows the secret of Storybrooke, and now's not the time to reveal it. Half an explanation will have to suffice. "He blames me for his son's failed marriage."

Wolf looks shocked. "You didn't. . .cheat. . . ?"

Gold snorts. "Of course not! Why the hell would any sane man cheat on Belle? No! Spencer's adopted son, David Nolan, used to be married to the daughter of one of Spencer's business associates, not happily for either party, I would add. And I nudged Nolan in the direction of Mary Margaret Blanchard, who did, and does, love him. And though all three lived happily ever after—Katharine's now practicing corporate law in Atlanta and making money hand over fist—Spencer doesn't see it that way. His partnership with Katharine's father dissolved and both men lost a lot of money, as well as face."

"So if the IRS takes you to the cleaners, he'll figure you're even."

"Seems so." Gold sets his fork down. "Sheriff, could I ask a favor? I see a microwave in your office. Would you reheat these eggs?"

* * *

><p>She's avoiding eye contact–expecting to escape his notice of the red streaks in the whites of her eyes–and chattering rapidly, endlessly about everything and anything. He lets it go without comment: Belle is putting up a brave front for his sake, so he won't worry, and he adores her for it. "And the kids will be going to New Jersey next weekend. Surprise, surprise: Regina's getting married! Henry's going to walk her down the aisle."<p>

"Who's the wretched victim?"

She swats him. "Rumple! You know better than that. Emma and Henry spent a whole week with her last fall and Emma said she's changed. Not completely, of course: still has quite a temper, but she's learned to control her acerbic tongue."

"It helps, I'm sure, that she can only extract hearts metaphorically these days."

"Rumple! You of all people–"

"Yes, sweetheart, I know perfectly well about the transformative power of love. I'm sure she really has changed, and I'm happy for her–and the groom. Is it that banker she was dating last year?"

"No, seems she met a new fella and he proposed on the third date and she accepted on the fourth date! So cute how they met: it was six a.m. on a Monday, and she heard all this racket on her front lawn, so she ran out to tell the noisemakers to pipe down. She was in a lace nightgown, no robe, and before she could start yelling, this man dropped to his knees, right there in the street, and begged her to go out with him. Well, she thought he was making fun of her–she never would have accepted anyway, because he was a garbage collector! She hauled off and slapped him and told him to get off her lawn before she called the cops. He just dumped her garbage in his truck and moved on. But that night he started sending her flowers, with sweet little notes begging forgiveness for his crudeness, and finally she called him and agreed to go out just once. She still didn't think it could work out: what could they possibly have in common?"

"This from the woman who sells used Toyotas," Gold snarks.

"But turns out, he's got impeccable manners and he loves ballroom dancing, and got her hooked on it too. So, voila! Love triumphant."

Gold smiles ruefully. "And yet another high-born lady loses her heart to a peasant. Yes, my love, it worked for us; it can work for them. I'll give her this: she's resilient and once she commits to something, she's all in. Not unlike a certain duchess I know and adore."

Belle rewards him with a kiss. "You know, the best part is, with her happily settled in another state, she's not likely to ever try to return to Storybrooke."

"Belle! Milady's claws are showing."

"Do you blame me? After the trouble she caused. Oh, and the realty office in Storybrooke called. The pink house has sold. They got less than half of the original asking price, but I told them we would accept that offer. After all this time without a nibble, I doubt if we'll get another. And it's just been standing empty these three years, a waste of money."

Gold nods. "We'll take it. We could use the cash right now. Kevin Kamen's the best tax attorney on the east coast, and he charges like it. Who made the offer? Under our protection spell, no outsider can move into Storybooke, and I didn't think anyone from the old world could come up with a million."

She folds and unfolds her hands. "You're not going to like it. And you're right. Under other circumstances, I would've refused, but like you said, we need the money right now. I mean, for the legal fees. The offer came from Albert Spencer."

Gold goes completely still. Belle nudges him. "Rumple? Say something. Come on. Don't sit there stewing."

"No."

"No, what? You won't talk about it?"

"No, we're not selling to him." The teeth flash and the hand on his cane is beginning to tremble. "I'll let that house crumble to the ground before I sell to him. I'll bulldoze it and salt the yard and burn the lumber before—" he reins himself in. There's no glass here for him to smash, so he has no outlet.

"We need the money," Belle says gently. "I told the realtor yes." She strokes his back, urging him to calm down. She changes the subject, yammers on about a rising star in the Boston Ballet, and he lets her voice wash over him, bringing balm to his insulted heart. It's only after she's gone, off to work at the library, that he pieces a few things together: under all this stress, why didn't she take today off work? And why did she keep saying "We need the money"—not "the cash," as he had, thinking of all the funds they have tied up in investments and certificates of deposit, but "the money"?

The office phone rings but Gold, lost in thought, barely notices until Wolf strolls over to the cell, offering a cup of coffee and some news. "That was your lawyer. He said he expects to arrive mid-morning on Thursday." When Gold just nods, Wolf inquires, "You okay, Mr. Gold? Can I get you something? I got a deck of cards in the office. You want to play some blackjack?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Wolf."

"Something to read, then?" The sheriff pointedly ignores the books that Belle brought in. "I got the latest issue of _Sports Illustrated_. The newspa—" he cuts himself off and mutters, "Naw, you best not look at the newspaper."

The poor lad is trying so hard, Gold allows himself to be helped out of his funk. "Mr. Wolf, I could really use that shower now."

"Sure." Wolf grins. "Nothing like a shower to get the blood pumpin'." He unlocks the door as Gold gathers up a fresh suit. At the last minute, Gold leaves behind the jacket and tie. It's not as though he needs to dress to impress today; he won't be going anywhere. And the shower and a shave really do make him feel better. As he's dressing, he can pretend for a few minutes it's a normal morning and he's getting ready for a day at the clinic, making phone calls to funders, to be followed by lunch with Mayor Bell and the BC Development Committee to discuss plans to expand Creativity Camp, to be followed by a board meeting at Treadle to review micro loan applications.

To be active in the community, vital. To be needed.

Wolf leads him back to his cell and leaves the door partially open. "Well, I got some paperwork," he apologizes. "You know, government red tape. At noon I'll go over to Persie's and pick up lunch." Poor lad, he really is trying.

Gold sits down on his cot, surrounded by Belle's books, his fresh suits, his iPad and iPod. He tries to ward off thoughts of sneaking into Spencer's house (the pink house on Gold Avenue) some late night, creeping silently up the stairs (he knows exactly which floorboard squeaks, so he can avoid it), standing over the king-sized bed in the master bedroom (the bedroom in which Gold and Belle had shared their bodies and their hearts), and staring down at the snoring son of a bitch who's made this mess, lifting his cane and sneering, "Say hello to my little friend" as he brings it down, oh, he knows exactly where to strike, where to rain long overhead blows, where to use a baseball bat type stroke, where a staccato of short, finessed blows will do the most damage.

A voice makes him yelp. He's leaned on the iPod, causing it to turn on and play a recording he made.

_"He who conquers himself is the greatest warrior. Do what must be done with a docile heart."_

Damn that know-it-all Master Po. _He_ never had to cope with a Spencer. And though he was known to use his cane as a weapon from time to time, Po never had to fight off the urge to send splatters of his enemy's blood onto the walls of the room in which his beloved used to sleep.

Gold selects another file on the iPod. Master Khan: "_The best fighters do not make displays of anger. The wisest antagonist is he who wins without engaging in battle." _Gold had always suspected Master Khan knew what it was like to swallow down anger and feel it stick in the throat.

But Caine, Caine the learner, Caine the orphan, Caine the stranger in a strange land, Caine sometimes fell prey to his own emotions. Caine had killed in anger, once, and had felt shame for it, and had asked his master for absolution. Gold has always thought Caine would have felt what Gold feels: Gold is sure Caine, like him, would have experienced mind-filling red.

Caine: "_Within me anger boils as water in a heated pot."__  
><em>Khan_: "Observe the day lily. Each morning, with the warmth of the sun it opens in lovely blossom. Each night it closes."__  
><em>Caine_: "I do not understand. What has a flower to do with my anger?"__  
><em>Khan_: "Once your anger warmed you, and like the flower you opened to it. That is long past. It is night."__  
><em>Caine_: "Am I then to do nothing, feel nothing, be still?"__  
><em>Khan_: "Still water is like glass. It is the perfect level. A carpenter can use it. The heart of a wise man is tranquil and still. Thus, it's the mirror of heaven and earth. The glass of everything. Be like still water. You look into it, and see yourself."_

Gold releases his breath and his cane. He settles back onto the cot to try to meditate.

* * *

><p>"Mr. G.?"<p>

Gold opens his eyes slowly, and stiffly unwinds from the lotus position. Well, a poor approximation of the lotus position. Wolf and the Doves have entered his cage, the former grinning, Josiah smiling hopefully, Fran shaking her head slightly, expressing her annoyance with the situation. It's got to have been rough on them, Gold realizes, to have their home and their business invaded by federal agents. These people, especially: Fran, who fretted over every penny when she ran La Tandoor, and Josiah, who never even cheated at dominoes. Damn it, they even pay parking meters on Sundays. _Within me anger boils._

"How you doin'?" Josiah asks.

"I'm sorry," Gold answers softly. "You got caught in the crossfire."

"Don't worry about it," Josiah says. "The asshole's got nothing. There's nothing to get. Your records, so spotless you could eat off of 'em."

"They brought lunch," Wolf says brightly. "Interrogation room?" He swings the door open wide.

"I invited Belle," Fran informs them, "but she's got Noontime Storytime so she can't make it. I've got slow-cooker short ribs planned for tonight, so I thought we'd go with something light for lunch: penne pasta with tomato pesto."

The quartet seat themselves and start passing dishes back and forth.

"I brought some _Field & Stream_s," Josiah announces. "And the dominoes. Thought we might play after lunch."

"Have you closed the shop for the day, then?" Gold wonders.

Josiah focuses his attention on the bread he's buttering. "Well. You know."

Fran explains for him: "We thought it best, under the circumstances."

It's Gold's turn to stare at his food. "I suppose you're not getting any customers. Because of bad publicity, because of. . . ." Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a worried glance that passes between the Doves and a small, warning head shake from Josiah.

"Fresh and Fast is doing good, though. We've got R & D guys from Apple in Creativity Camp this week, and they've been calling over for meals and snacks." Josiah shakes his head with a smile. "Man, those techies can shovel it in. Went through ten gallons of Irish stew yesterday. So Franny's got me on clean up and shopping duty. Keeping us plenty busy."

"Belle said she came by this morning," Fran says. "She said to tell you she'll be back tonight after the library closes."

Gold sets down his fork. "I need to ask a favor." The dealer in him scrambles for something to offer in return, but he comes up empty. Anyway, to make a deal of it would be to cheapen the gift.

"Sure," Josiah agrees around a mouthful of pasta.

"Gladly," Fran adds.

"She doesn't appear to be getting any sleep. I suspect she's not eating, either. Would you," he looks from one to the other, "keep an eye on her while I'm here?"

"You don't have to ask," Josiah replies. "We'd do it anyway."

Fran scoops some more pasta onto Gold's plate. "She asked the same for you. Eat, please, so I can report good news to her." He retrieves his fork but hesitates; Fran flicks her fingers at him. "Eat, eat!"

As Gold takes another mouthful, Fran continues, "Rumple, even if we weren't around, you wouldn't have to worry about Belle."

"I know," he admits. "She's a strong woman—"

"No, what I mean is: she's being looked after. Bae too; he's being looked after. You have a lot of friends." She studies him, saddened by the surprise in his expression. "If you don't know that now, you soon will."

"The wagons are circlin', Mr. G.," Josiah winks at him. "And we're passing out the rifles."


	65. Chapter 65

Chapter 65

Caine: "If_ I tell you, you are not within a prison, the prison is within you, can you believe that?"_

Fran's gone on to work; she has meals to prepare for the Apple R & D folk; but Josiah stays behind for the promised game of dominoes. "You don't have to, you know," Gold says apologetically. "I'm sure you have more important things to do."

"What's more important than hangin' with a friend?" Josiah shakes the dominoes out of their box. Wolf has allowed them to remain in the interrogation room, where they have more space and a table to lay out the dominoes on.

After that, neither of them says anything too open and honest; they just play their game. Gold finds it a relief to not have to talk about his feelings or his problems. Wolf seems to understand that too—maybe it's a guy thing—because he leaves them alone to play through the afternoon until Blue arrives, bringing some small canisters of teas that she and Gold raised themselves. She's spent the morning at the used clothing store in Storybrooke, where plenty of shoppers dropped in, but unfortunately, not to buy; they came to gossip and gripe.

"Most people are bewildered," she reports. "They don't understand what's going on. Even the people who think you're a creep are scratching their heads over the charges. 'He's mean, ill-tempered, unyielding, cold-blooded and cruel,' they're saying, 'but he's honest. He pays to the penny.' And your friends are grumbling; it won't be long til they start _gathering _and grumbling together, and eventually they're going to make one big noise. They think the charges aren't a mistake—they think the charges are_ falsified_. And so do I." She takes the liberty of entering Wolf's office to use his microwave to heat cups of tea. "No, let me rephrase that: I _know_ the charges are phony." When she returns to the interrogation room with the tea, she says firmly, "I know it's rough right now, but just remember, soon they 'will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.'"

Gold nods, recognizing the well-known Scripture; it's exactly what he expects her to say. But then she causes him to choke on his tea when she adds, "Also remember, as Dryden wrote, 'Beware the fury of a patient man.' Or as General Stillwell said, 'Don't let the bastards grind you down.'"

Blue leaves with instructions about the hospital magic shows to pass along to Bernadette; as she goes out, Bae comes in. His eyes are ringed with dark circles and he moves more slowly than normal; clearly, he hasn't slept, and Gold bends his own head in shame as Josiah gathers up the dominoes to rebox them and Bae draws out a chair to be seated.

"You haven't been resting," Gold begins.

"Neither have you. Guess we've both got a plateful of worries right now," Bae answers, rubbing his face. "The agents went through every cupboard and every drawer at my house and at Treadle. I had to let them in, unlock everything for them, then stand aside while they pawed through our stuff. My tool cabinet, the junk drawer where we toss all the broken and used-up stuff that we think we might make something out of someday, Henry's closet—" Bae sniffs. "They found a _Playboy_ there. Emma didn't know about it. Man, was she pissed, but she couldn't say anything in front of the agents."

Gold chuckles. "But you knew about it."

Bae nods. "He'd gotten careless once and left it in the bathroom. I hid it under his pillow, where he'd find it but Emma wouldn't."

Overdramatically, Gold lays a hand on his chest. "They grow up so fast, don't they?"

"Too bad we didn't have anything like that in the old country. I might've been a whole lot better prepared for my first time with a woman."

"Good thing we didn't have such publications. I'd have never gotten you out of the outhouse." This is safer, making deprecating jokes; humor is the device by which Gold apologizes for the recent trouble and Bae accepts the apology. If they were to talk about their worries, their feelings, they'd have to admit that their defenselessness scares them.

"You have had The Talk with him?"

"Of course, Pop. That talk has to come a lot earlier in this world. Regina beat us to it: she gave him the Birds and the Bees spiel when he was eight." They look at each other and shudder with a unified "Eeeww!"

"Hey, guess what Henry found this morning when he was looking in the mirror."

Gold smiles broadly. "His first chin whisker?"

"Got it in one. I'm going to take him shopping for his first razor."

"And I'll buy him his first bottle of aftershave," Gold plans, "as soon as I get out of here."

Bae echoes his father. "They grow up so fast."

* * *

><p>It's different when Emma comes, and not just because Josiah and Bae have gone and she can speak to Gold privately: her bluntness is healthy for both of them, she who would otherwise hide behind an emotional wall and he would otherwise hide behind half-truths. But if she's going to be successful in her investigation, they both have to confront the whole truth head-on, so she asks, and he answers completely, relating plainly and precisely what Spencer had said last night. "That's our man," she agrees, "not that we had any doubts. So that leaves two questions: how did he do it and who helped him. Because the Feds definitely have <em>something<em>, or it wouldn't have gone this far."

"We'll find out on Thursday what they have. The prosecution will have to share evidence with Kamen."

"Spencer had to have tampered with your records."

Gold shakes his head. "I go through them thoroughly, twice a month. Nothing was amiss when I checked them last, a week ago."

"Yeah, that's the surprising part. Everyone in both towns knows about your Recordkeeping Day. They knew better than to try to approach you for anything then." She sighs, mulling it over. "Well, on Thursday when we see what they have, we'll figure out the how part. I figure Sid's in on it too, but there must be a third guy; Sid's not that skilled in anything more complicated than gossip blogging. Who might the third guy be?"

Gold ponders but shakes his head. "I have a lot of enemies, but no one whose hatred of me would be strong enough to overcome his fear of me."

Emma snorts. "Yeah, I believe it. Well, a contact of mine is accessing Sid's and Spencer's phone records, and a couple of our friends in Storybrooke are helping me keep an eye on them. Spencer's smart enough not to let himself be seen with Sid, but Sid's bound to slip up at some point. Did you know that one of the most common ways we catch big-time criminals is a traffic cop pulls them over for a broken tail light? So what we've got to do is watch for Sid's broken tail light."

* * *

><p>At dusk, Belle returns, the Doves and the promised short ribs in tow; they dine on china in the interrogation room, with Gold's iPod playing some Bach as background to their conversation. Their pointless talk—which, after all, really does have an emotional purpose—and their meal are interrupted when the front door bursts open and eight people walk in, bearing everything from folding chairs to laptops and yellow pads. At the forefront is Arminta Bell, who declares, "You couldn't come to the meeting, so we brought the meeting to you." With a gesture to her companions, the jail room is transformed into a makeshift conference room. "Sorry to interrupt, folks," she says to Belle and the Doves, "but we got to borrow Rumple for a couple of hours. See, we're finishin' off the Five Year Plan, so it's real important to the economic future of Bell's Corners. So of course we got to have Gold's input. You're welcome to stay, but it might be kind of boring: lots of talk about contracts."<p>

"We'll take Belle home." Fran and Jo gather up the dishes. "Make sure she rests."

"Will you be going back to work tomorrow?" Gold whispers to his wife. At her nod, he frowns, "Why? Under all this stress—"

She doesn't let him finish. "I need to. If I stayed home, I'd go crazy."

He can't argue with that; he's driven by the same need to feel productive.

As he shakes hands with each committee member, he searches faces for signs of distrust or disgust, but the handshakes are firm, the eye contact steady, the greetings as respectful and warm as ever. The Development Committee is ignoring his change in circumstances and transforming the environment around them so that for one night, he can, too.

He looks out over the circle of chairs that now fill the jail, the paperwork and laptops that have taken over the deputy's desk, and the people—the hotel owner, the pharmacist, the principal of the high school, a farmer, a preacher, a mechanic, Persie—who are filling the room with their clustered conversations as they seat themselves. Full, the room is full, and his life is full, even now; even now, he can be productive, and looks upon these people with gratitude, wondering if they know their presence is keeping him from, as Belle had said, going crazy.

Gold and Belle kiss good night, Fran encircles Belle with a comforting arm, and Dove assures Gold, "We'll make sure she sleeps tonight. Infomercials—they put her right to sleep. We'll tuck her in with that Pocket Fisherman commercial."

Gold ignores the stab of jealousy over this reminder that Dove was married to Belle a lot longer than Gold has been. "Thank you, Mr. Dove. And thanks for the _Field and Stream_s."

"Sheriff, I'll bring breakfast by at seven," Fran calls out as she leads Belle away.

"Lookin' forward to it, Mrs. D." Wolf pats the mayor's arm. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then, Auntie. I'm going home for the night; Hank'll do the overnight guard duty."

The mayor stays him a moment. "Guess you should know, I had a call from the Storybrooke DA's office. Complaint about laxity in jail standards here. The word 'mollycoddling' came up once or twice. 'Preferential treatment for the rich.' That sort of thing."

Wolf is unperturbed. "What'd you tell 'em?"

"'Proof's in the pudding,' I said. 'Gold'll be here 'til the bail's paid.' Good night, Ian. Tell Sarah I'll see her and the kids in church on Sunday." The mayor moves to the center of the circle and claps her hands. "Okay, folks, let's get started." She casts a quick glance at Gold. "Hope you still got room for dessert. I didn't know Fran was going to feed you, so I ordered pizza. This lot's going need something to munch on while we review these contract offers."

* * *

><p>It's after 11 p.m. when the committee finishes for the night. They finally have a first draft of the plan; next week at the same time (but <em>not<em>, the mayor says pointedly, in the same place) they will meet again to revise the draft, and the week after that, it will be finalized. In the meantime, everyone is to review the draft for omissions and clarifications. "Rumple, we're especially depending on you to find the holes. You got a knack for that." If they only knew, he chuckles to himself; they have the Loophole King working for them. "If you need any law books, the city charter, anything like that, just tell Ian. See you next week."

"Good night." He doesn't thank them for treating him the same as always; that would break the pretense they've cast over this night. His acceptance of two slices of pepperoni pizza, despite having just finished a four-course meal from Fran, was his way of thanking them. "See you next week."

When all are gone except Deputy Hank Hanks, he returns on his own accord to the cell, closing the door behind him. "You need anything before lights out?" Hank asks.

"An antacid?"

Hank chuckles as he saunters off to the office to fulfill the request. "Yeah, Persie's tomato sauce gives me the burps." After providing the Tums, Hank asks, "Anything else? You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah." Gold removes his tie and kicks off his shoes. "I think so. I think I'm okay." And he's referring to more than the antacid.

* * *

><p>At seven o'clock both the Doves and Emma are waiting as Wolf unlocks the building and relieves Hank. "I brought bagels," Emma says proudly. Fran approves: "They'll go great with the smoked salmon."<p>

Gold, freshly showered and shaved, greets them. He's moved by Emma's offering to the breakfast; like the mayor last night, she's making a statement with her bagels: business as usual. Gold may be behind bars, but we don't have to see those bars.

"My contact at the phone company will have Spencer's and Sidney's records for me sometime today. And I talked to Kamen yesterday: he's coming over to the house tomorrow night for dinner so we can get to work. Belle, too. We're going to put Kamen up in our guest room so we can work into the wee hours of the morning."

"Sneaky, dearie, sneaky."

"Belle told me how much he charges. We're gonna get our money's worth out of him." As the Doves busy themselves dishing up food, Emma leans forward to ask, "How are you doing, by the way? I'm sure Ian's treating you right, but—if it was me, being locked up like a lost dog in a kennel. . . ." she shivers.

"I've been kept occupied, so it hasn't been too bad. I'm more worried about Belle. This is Wednesday; the library opens late. I thought she'd come by."

"I can guess what you're thinking, but it's not that."

"What's going on, Emma?"

She puffs out her cheeks. "Look, she asked us not to say anything. She doesn't want you worrying. But I know you're thinking she's ashamed of you, because that's how you think; I have a bad habit of thinking that way too. You keep expecting people to run out on you. Well, I'd remind you weren't the only one who stood there in front of Blue and took a vow of forever, and when it comes to deals, Belle's got just as much honor as you do. She's not going anywhere."

A half-smile tugs at Gold's mouth and he looks down at his plate. "Thank you, my dear. I stand corrected. But if you don't mind, I'll continue to worry about her well being."

Emma shrugs. "Of course. It's in the marriage contract: 'love, honor and worry about.'"

"The parenting contract too. And those responsibilities never fade, no matter how old the child."

"If you're asking how Bae'd doing, he's out of the shock phase and into the pissed off phase. He wants to see Spencer painted like a piñata and strung up for people to take swings at. Him and me are in agreement on that one."

"This. . . incident. . .has got to be damaging for Treadle."

Emma sits back as the Doves start passing platters around. "Yeah. Let's not talk about that, huh? Soup's on and I'm starved."

Gold's hand shoots out to seize her wrist as she's reaching for a bagel. "You're hiding something from me."

She pulls her arm away gently. "Don't ask me, Pop. You're going to find out eventually, but not now. Don't make me break my promise to Belle."

"Crap."

"I hope that's not a comment on the food," Fran jokes, scooping cottage fries onto his plate. "Eat up, Rumple."

* * *

><p>When his breakfast visitors have gone, he tries to focus on the Five Year Plan. He tells himself he has to trust Belle's judgment: whatever information she's withholding, she has a good reason for it and will reveal when the time is right. When he catches himself rereading the first sentence of the Plan over and over, he gives up and tries to meditate. He's moderately successful, managing to clear his mind sufficiently to concentrate on the Plan for the rest of the morning. Pleased, he allows himself to be interrupted at noon for a lunch with Bae, who's just as tight-lipped as his wife. They spend their lunch hour debating which brand of razor Henry should have.<p>

"Hey there, Mr. G.!"

Gold's head shoots up from the Plan and he reddens at the familiar voice. His eyes make contact with Angelo Senior's and he shakes his head in warning, but the Romano family rolls in anyway, Angelo Junior still in a wheelchair. "Doctor Whale said I could leave the hospital for the day so here we are!"

"His first trip outside the hospital in months. We asked him where he'd like to go and he wanted to see you," Cindy Romano says. "We'll only stay a minute."

"I never seen a jail before." Junior reaches out to touch the cool steel bars and Gold hangs his head. Junior points to the cot. "Is that where you sleep?"

Gold nods. He'd crawl under it if he could.

"Where do you go to the bathroom?"

Cindy and Angelo Senior burst into laughter. "You've got to excuse him. We're still working on learning manners."

Encouraged by his parents' laughter, the boy plunges into the question Gold's been dreading: "When I'm bad, I have to sit in the corner. What did you do, Mr. G.?"

Gold can't face the boy. "It was a mistake. They think I did something bad, but I didn't."

The boy thinks this over, his little face confused. "Did you tell them you didn't do it?" At Gold's nod, Angelo presses, "Why can't you come out then?"

"They don't believe me yet. But I'll make them believe me, Angelo, and when I do, they'll let me out and I can come back to the hospital and do magic again. Okay?"

"Mr. Gold is going to be okay," Cindy assures her son. "We'll see him again soon."

"Will you do a magic trick for me now?" Angelo brightens.

"I. . ." He grasps at an excuse.

"Maybe Mr. Gold doesn't feel like doing magic today, son," Senior explains.

"I. . . didn't bring my magic with me."

"But it's Wednesday," Angelo argues.

"I guess I forgot. But Ms. Bernie, she'll be at the hospital today with her magic. Will you do me a favor, Angelo, and go to see her? Clap real loud for her? Because she gets nervous, you know, and she needs encouragement."

Now that he has a task to perform, Angelo looks up at his father with a solemn expression. "Can we go back, Dad? I need to help Ms. Bernie." Before his father can answer, Angelo looks back at Gold. "Will you be okay if we go back?"

"I'll be okay, Angelo. And I'll see you soon, I promise."

"We can go back for Ms. Bernie," Senior replies.

Angelo deliberates, then decides, "Okay." His father starts to wheel him around, but the boy suddenly exclaims, "Wait!" He reaches into a pocket on the side of the wheelchair and extracts an Avengers coloring book. He pushes it through the bars. "Here, Mr. G., so you can color and you won't get bored."

Gold accepts the gift with a breaking heart.


	66. Chapter 66

Chapter 66

Caine: "_You think wisdom is a flower to be plucked. It is a mountain to be climbed."_

Kamen arrives shortly after breakfast on Thursday and Wolf puts them in the interrogation room for privacy. He gets right down to business. "What do you think they've got?"

Gold appreciates the straightforwardness, and as an attorney himself, he understands they can't build a defense until they know what they're defending against. Still, Kamen's question could be taken as an indirect query into Gold's guilt. Gold shakes his head. "I have no idea. I do my own taxes–always have–and review them thoroughly before my wife and I sign off on them. I keep records so detailed that if you asked me how much I spent on a box of pens for my antiques shop in May 2005, I could tell you precisely. So–nothing. There's nothing they could have."

Kamen purses his lips. "Then let's talk about your enemies."

"I had a visit from one of them this week." Gold's eyes darken. "He let me know he's behind this; it's revenge for a business deal I spoiled for him. He didn't say how he'd done it, but it seems certain he somehow falsified my tax returns."

"And other records as well, since the charges include embezzlement. So who is he and how would he have gained access to your records?"

"His name is Albert Spencer and he's the DA in Storybrooke."

Kamen whistles lowly. "So he knows what he's doing. Where do you keep your records?"

"In my study at home. And no, I haven't had a break-in, nor has Spencer or his minions ever been to my house. Along with my personal income and my wife's, I maintain records for an antiques shop I share with a partner and a nonprofit I manage with my son. The nonprofit has a board, of course, and they've all received quarterly financial reports from me as well as copies of our 990s. The president of the board signs off on the 990s. The board's never found an error."

"Give me a list of names and addresses. I'll interview them," Kamen decides. "May want to have the president of the board testify. Do you keep copies of your records anywhere else?"

"Photocopies in a safe deposit box at my bank, First National of Storybrooke. For an emergency backup."

Kamen frowns a little. "So the bank has access to those."

"Not without my key. It takes my key along with theirs to open the box."

"Or so they've told you."

"Twice a month, I give the key to my business partner, Josiah Dove, and he deposits the updated records into the box." Gold deliberates whether to explain about the exile that initially prevented him from depositing the records himself, but that would lead to a revelation Gold dare not make. It's bad enough to be labeled an embezzler and a fraud; he's not ready to add "nutcase" to the labels. "The key is in his possession for no more than two hours at a time–"

"Long enough to make a duplicate and go back later to tamper with the box's contents."

Gold fixes Kamen in his gaze. "I'd trust Mr. Dove with my life. And my wife's. And no, he has no dealings, personal or business, with Albert Spencer. However, Sidney Glass does. He's a former reporter for the Storybrooke Mirror. He writes a gossip blog that's been highly critical of me–and sometimes libelous."

"I know. I Googled you." Kamen checks his watch. "I'm meeting with the AUSA at ten," he says, once the introductions have been made. "Her name is Saeva Anguem. Harvard Law, six years as an assistant district attorney in Cleveland, ten years as an AUSA in Maine. 92% conviction rate. That may seem high, but the average conviction rate for the DoJ is 93%."

"Somehow that doesn't make me feel better," Gold remarks.

Kamen offers proudly, "I have a 3% acquittal rate and an 11% dismissal rate."

"I know that's a lot better than it sounds, but please don't mention those numbers in front of my wife." Gold shifts in his chair. "You know anything about the magistrate judge, Joseph Keaton?"

"Socrates said a good judge is courteous, wise, and impartial. That's Keaton. When you come before him in the morning, he'll have two bails in mind, and whichever one he assigns will be based on how well you convince him you're not a flight risk. It would help to have your family present, so he can see how deep your commitment to them goes, and theirs to you."

Gold winces, but Kamen continues, "Keaton already knows you own a business and a house here, but the best sign of stability you can show him is your ties to people here. Let's make a list of people who who'd write a letter of support for you."

"Well," Gold clears his throat, "there's Dr. Mike Miner–OB/GYN, the Reverend Mother Maris Stella, Dr. Archie Hopper–psychiatrist, Sam Browning–he's a tailor, Mayor Arminta Bell and her husband Eb, Clara Donegal–she's the volunteer coordinator for Storybrooke General, Persimmon Plockton–owns a diner–"

Five minutes later, Gold's still naming names, but Kamen's stopped writing. The lawyer is just staring, open-mouthed, until Gold runs out of either steam or names, then Kamen blinks. "Uh, yeah. Your daughter-in-law volunteered to assist me in any way I ask; I'll be asking her to split this list with me. And, Mr. Gold? Typically, the bail in a case like this would be in the $30,000 area, but I'm going to do something I rarely do: I'll be asking Judge Keaton to release you on your own recognizance."

* * *

><p>Kamen returns in the evening, just in time to catch supper with the Doves and Belle. "Should we leave?" Josiah wonders. "Do you need to talk business, Mr. Kamen?"<p>

"No, no, stay." Kamen seems puzzled by the informality–or does he consider it laxity?–in this jail and he eyes Wolf curiously but refrains from comment. "I brought by the bail application that I filed this afternoon, for Mr. Gold's perusal. But if you don't mind, I'd like to not talk business for a while. Besides, that chicken Kiev is making my mouth water."

"Well, then!" Belle leaps to her feet. "If you don't mind eating off a platter, sit and eat with us. There's plenty. I've been trying for years to put a few pounds on Rumple, and the best way to get him to eat is if we're all eating too. So sit, and would you prefer coffee or tea?"

"Just water, please. I've had too much coffee today." Kamen accepts the silverware and napkin that Josiah sets him up with as Fran fetches water from the cooler and Belle clears off the butter flake rolls from a platter and proceeds to fill it with a four-course meal for the lawyer. "Thank you. You people are very kind to an out-of-towner. In fact, everyone here seems to be."

"Guess you could say our livelihood depends on the kindness of strangers," Belle suggests, and she proceeds to tell him about Creativity Camp.

As they enjoy Fran's cooking and the conversation, Gold watches Kamen watching the Doves and Belle. Kamen is taking Gold's measure from the way these people speak to and of Gold. Gold understands this. It's hardly an objective means of assessing character–after all, these three people all benefit financially from their association with Gold–but perhaps the lawyer can at least see that their affection and trust are not faked. He's grateful to the Doves and Belle for helping him to put his best foot–their feet–forward.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Bae and Emma arrive with their houseguest, Mr. Kamen, in tow, just before Wolf arrives, who precedes the Doves and Belle. As the breakfast is laid out–buffet style this time, since there's not enough room for all these people in the interrogation room–Kamen draws Gold aside. "I got copies of the evidence delivered to me last night and I'm piecing them together. You're being accused of altering the financial records for the nonprofit so that you could claim you donated a total of $750,000 over the past three years."<p>

"And write off that donation on my income taxes."

"Right."

"$750,000 spread out over over three years is still a lot of money. That's a lot of hoodwinking for a seven-member board. I must be very, very good at pulling the wool over people's eyes."

Kamen shrugs. "Your talent for sleight of hand is well known, Anguem says."

"Does she have any theories as to what I needed this much money for, that I couldn't have paid out of available funds? Or by selling a property or two? I presume she is aware that my net worth is in the $1.25 billion range."

"Yeah, that was my question too. Why make such a bonehead move, so easy to get caught at, when you didn't need the money? No bad investments to compensate for, no gambling debts or no drug habits to cover up, no mistresses to pay off, so why bother stealing?"

"Guess I'm just a greedy bastard with an exemplary lifestyle."

"Anguem said if she had to guess, it would be payments for blackmail or bribes, perhaps connected to a kidnapping in which you were a suspect but somehow slipped the noose."

"Again, why did I go to all the work of embezzling when I could have just made a withdrawal the ATM?"

"To cover your trail?" Kamen guesses. "Hide it from your wife? You have joint bank accounts."

"Oh. Then, why didn't I just sell off a few things from the shop?"

"Your partner would find out."

"Oh. And it would be easier for a man to hoodwink seven board members than one wife or friend."

"Anguem admits she hasn't spent much time developing a motive for you. Her focus has been on the how, not the why. She just has to prove you embezzled and cheated on your taxes. She doesn't have to prove you needed to."

"A plausible motive would make her case stronger."

"She seems to think it's pretty strong as it is, with the records she has."

"Fake," Gold spits. "Spencer. Maybe assisted by Glass."

"That's where Ms. Swan comes in. I'm working on proving you didn't commit a crime. She's working on proving who did. Let me repeat: that's where _Ms_. _Swan_ comes in, not you. If I catch you endangering my case by approaching Spencer or Glass in any way, shape or form, I'm out of here. With my full fee." Kamen eyes the rapidly vanishing buffet. "Come on, let's get some breakfast while there's something left."

* * *

><p>For the bail hearing, the Bell's Corners City Council Chambers has been appropriated. The city council doesn't mind; in fact, it's the biggest event to take place in this room, where the air conditioning works wonkily and the wood floor squeaks and a portrait of Adam Edward Bell, town founder, looks down upon it all.<p>

Seated on the south side of the table are two women, both dressed in Chanel; the elder wears high heels and an unflappable expression, while the younger wears pumps and takes notes on her laptop. Gold, seated directly across from the assistant, casts an annoyed glance at her: she's in his chair, the one he usually sits in when the Development Committee meets in this room.

In the corner near the head of the table, the court reporter is set up at a little table. Eyes wide, she forgets she should appear calm and collected: she stares excitedly at the big-city strangers. With so little going on in Bell's Corners, she's lucky if the court gives her a day's work a month, so she spends most of her week cashiering at the A & P. She'll have plenty to talk about with her customers tomorrow. A bailiff stands beside her. Belle, Bae and Emma sit unobtrusively at the other end of the room.

Judge Joseph Keaton, a small, narrow-faced fellow with a flat accent and sharp gray eyes, enters with a folder full of papers and the bailiff calls the Court to order. Seating himself, Keaton scans the faces before him, settling on Gold's. "Rumple Gold?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Is that your full legal name?"

"Yes, sir."

"Represented by Mr. Kamen. The people are represented by Ms. Anguem."

""Yes, Your Honor." Her voice is smooth as uncut ice and just as cool. With a 92% success rate, what has she to worry about?

"This matter comes for consideration of the bail application that Mr. Kamen has filed for Mr. Gold. I reviewed it last night. Mr. Kamen, at this time is there any additional information you want me to consider, or is the application complete?"

Gold knows what's in that file folder: it's stuffed with a copy of the deeds to his house and shop, his criminal record (empty) and support letters from nine prominent citizens.

"Your Honor, I realize it's unusual, but could I get you to take a look out this window?" Kamen indicates the window directly behind the judge's chair.

"Very well, Mr. Kamen. I take it some additional pertinent information will make itself known." Keaton rises. "Join me, Ms. Anguem, Mr. Gold." Everyone except the bailiff and the court reporter move to the window. Keaton raises the blind, peers out, jerks his head back in surprise and murmurs, "Yeah. You're not going anywhere."

Returning to her seat, Anguem narrows her mascared eyes. When her turn to speak comes, she makes a go of it, arguing for the $30,000, but she's already lost this round; it's apparent as Keaton glances over his shoulder periodically at the window.

Out on the lawn are some two dozen citizens, ranging in age from six (Angelo) to (if the truth were told) five hundred (the Blue Fairy, a. k. a. the Reverend Mother Maris Stella). They're as quiet and orderly as one would expect hospital patients, business owners, fishermen, city council members, nuns, medics, a psychiatrist, cooks, waitresses and a mayor to be. Their signs do their talking for them: "Free Gold," "Mr. Gold is innocent," "You arrested the wrong man," "The truth will set Gold free."

Keaton takes a long, hard look at Gold before announcing, "Mr. Kamen, you asked that your client be released on his own recognizance. All things–and people–considered, I find nothing to suggest a flight risk or danger to the public. I hereby grant your request, Mr. Kamen. Mr. Gold, you are not to leave this county. Bear in mind that any infraction of the law–and that goes for traffic tickets–will bring us all right back here to start all over. That concludes these proceedings." With a cocked eyebrow toward Gold, Keaton rises and the bailiff calls for all to rise.

Gold dives into Belle's arms; coming up behind, Emma and Bae form a second circle embracing the couple. All three, Gold notices, are smirking. He needn't ask who organized the silent rally on the lawn. He wants nothing more than to go home, lock the doors and sink into his BarcaLounger with a remote in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other, but he has a duty to those people out there. His exile taught him there are times to be selfish and times to give of himself in gratitude, and today is the latter. With Belle under his arm and his son and his daughter-in-law behind him, he pushes back his anti-social impulse and, inviting Kamen along, walks down the stairs to the lawn to offer his thanks.

Persie insists on a celebratory toast in her diner: Gold is tempted to point out that it's much too soon for a celebration, but his friends seem so happy, he can't take the tiny victory away from them. The first round of sodas and iced teas is on the house.

As glasses are drained, Gold opens his mouth, about to buy the second round, but Belle prevents him with a squeeze of his wrist. "Let them," she whispers. "It means so much to them." So he closes his mouth again and the Bells buy round two. Raising his glass as Arminta salutes Mr. Kamen's thorough preparedness, Gold studies Belle from the corner of his eye. She keeps checking the clock. . . .

At a quarter to ten, she suddenly perches on tiptoe, gives him a hasty kiss on the cheek and says softly, "I have to go. I'll see you at home tonight, around eight-thirty."

"What?" He seizes her arm. "Go? Go where? Belle!"

She smiles faintly. "Welcome home, darling." And she slips through the crowd and away from him as Blue buys the third round.


	67. Chapter 67

Chapter 67

Caine: "_How do I find myself in the light?"_

Po: "_By taking the path that leads to the truth."_

* * *

><p>Following Bae's Prius from the diner, Gold drives Kamen to Emma and Bae's to pick up a half-dozen banker's boxes, their work for the day. Bae will spend the day in an imposed vacation; with Treadle in stasis, he has no job to go to. The men sit on the porch for a while, nursing beers, and while Bae and Kamen talk about this morning's support rally, Gold tries to call Belle. He's sent directly to voice mail. He hates how bossy he sounds as he demands she call and explain herself, but he's scared. They don't keep secrets from each other, so why the hell did she take off like that? He gives her thirty minutes, then calls again with the same result.<p>

"We ought to get to work on that evidence," Kamen advises.

"Yeah, whatever," Gold leaves his unfinished beer on the porch rail. But halfway down the steps he swings back. "Did she say anything to you or Emma?"

Bae squirms. "Pop, you're going to have to talk to her."

* * *

><p>"This is wrong." Gold looks up from the stack of photocopies spread out across his dining table.<p>

Across from him, Kamen is setting up his Surface and sipping coffee. The note of alarm in Gold's voice draws his attention away from the computer. "What is?"

"This 990." Gold stabs a finger at a tax return. He rifles through the other documents. "And this one, this one, this–my gods, these are all wrong. All lies." He leaps to his feet, landing hard on his bad ankle and has to limp into his office. In a minute he's back, cursing and empty-handed. "They took my records! Damn it, how do I–"

"Take it easy, Rumple," Kamen says calmly, lifting a banker's box from the floor to the dining table. "Here are photocopies of the records they took from your study–the ones that you had in your file cabinet. The ones on the table here are copies of documents they claim they found hidden in a false bottom in your desk. Documents that, I take it, are falsified."

"Damn right they are." Gold pounces on the banker's box. In a few minutes he's lined up Treadle's 2011 990 side by side with a document purporting to be the one that was submitted to the IRS. "This," he stabs a finger at one of the documents, "is correct. The other is a fake."

"The one that was sent to the IRS," Kamen says. "That's a fake. Who had access to these forms before you mailed them to the IRS?"

"Belle, of course, for our personal income; Bae and the board for Treadle; and Josiah for the shop; they reviewed the forms and signed them."

"Of course. Who else?"

"The vice-president of my bank, Wilford Scrooge. He checks my math, then when he's verified each form, he makes a copy to send back to me for my files–"

"And sends the original to the IRS," Kamen finishes.

Glumly, Gold adds, "I first hired him to assist me in 2012, when I was on honeymoon; I continued to use his services in 2013 and 2014. With two partnerships and a nonprofit, the taxes became more complicated; it helped to have a more knowledgeable. . . ." He sighs, giving up.

Kamen smirks. "And there's our inside man. Now, let's start cataloging the damage he did." He slides a pack of Post-its across the table. "Here, start going through the tax returns. On the stickies, make note of everything in the fakes that doesn't match up with the real returns. While you do that, I'm going to call a colleague of mine, a regional president of the American Society of Questioned Document Examiners."

"I like that name," Gold remarks.

"We'll photocopy these documents and have them overnighted to her. Her services are expensive, Mr. Gold, but when she's consulted on a case for me, I've had an eighty-seven percent win rate."

"Make the call, Mr. Kamen." Gold slaps a yellow sticker onto a stapled set of pages, then fumbles in his pocket. As Kamen steps out onto the porch for better reception, Gold returns to his office for a pen. One of the drawers, he notices, has been taken, probably as evidence: the one that presumably has a false bottom. He's certain now that Spencer, either in the flesh or in representation by a stealthy minion, at some point entered this room and planted "evidence." It makes him queasy; he wonders if he and Belle were at home at the time of the break-in. . . asleep upstairs. . . perhaps nude and draped around each other, as they often fell asleep. His hand clenches. He imagines transporting himself with a puff of magic into Spencer's bedroom in the middle of some night when the damn DA has a lady friend staying over, and greeting them into wakefulness with floodlights and a bullhorn, or better yet, TV cameras, yes, cameras and a laugh track and a live studio audience. Don't use magic in anger, he'd promised Archie, but a mage could still daydream.

He yanks open every remaining drawer in his desk in hopes of finding his lucky pen, but has to settle for a handful of Bics.

When he emerges, Kamen has returned. "She'll take us on." He sits back down at the table and grabs a tax form and a pen. "This is going to take a while, so we may as well get comfortable." He slides his jacket off and loosens his tie. Gold merely unbuttons his jacket. Kamen snorts. "That's your version of comfortable?"

Gold blinks. "Yeah."

"Okay," Kamen shrugs. He kicks off his shoes, leans back in his chair, clicks a pen and starts to scan the first page of the 2011 Form 1065 for Gold & Dove Antiques. They work in silence for a few minutes, filling stickie after stickie with notes, until Gold's temper cools down enough that he remembers his manners. "Would you care for something to drink, Mr. Kamen? Coffee, iced tea, mineral water?"

"Tea would be nice," Kamen decides. "And Mr. Gold? We're going to be spending a lot of time over the next couple of days working together. How about if you call me Kevin and I'll call you–if you don't mind a nosy question, how did you get such an unusual first name?"

Raising to his feet, Gold smiles with a feigned fondness. "My father never did tell me and I never asked. But he was quite the joker, so I assumed he meant it as some sort of prank, the meaning of which is forever lost in time."

Kamen chews thoughtfully on the cap of his pen. "'Rumple' wouldn't be short for something, would it?"

"It was, at one time, but as I told the judge, 'Rumple Gold' is my full legal name now. Do you take sugar or lemon in your tea, Kevin?"

"Not going to tell me, are you?" Kamen smirks. "Lemon, no sugar."

* * *

><p>On top of things. Gold feels at last on top of things, now that he and Kamen have a detailed list of every discrepancy between the fraudulent tax returns and the true documents. They know the "who" and the "what" now, Kamen surmises; they need only discover the "how." And that, both men admit, will be tough, because, at least to their untrained eyes, the fakes are damn good, the handwriting almost a close enough match to fool Gold himself.<p>

All right, the handwriting _is_ a close enough match to fool Gold himself. It's perfect, down to the wide swooping head of the "r" ("a showman's 'r,'" Belle has called it) and the tight formation of the letters of the last name (an indication, Gold thinks, that he's never been comfortable with his curse name).

Spencer is no practiced forger; in fact, there is none in Storybrooke. Gold's certain of that; as a pawnbroker, he knew every criminal in town. So Spencer must have brought in an outsider, possibly snuck in as one of the few tourists the Storybrooke Chamber of Commerce managed to lure. A smart move: Spencer would have known that the boundary spell Gold and Blue erected would have wiped away any outsider's true memory of his visit, leaving him with only vague images of a pleasant but dull village. Hell, not only would the forger leave with no memory of the crime; Spencer wouldn't have had to even pay him.

It's dark when they finish their catalog of lies. The least he can do for his lawyer, after all that work, is to feed him, Gold decides, so as Kamen types up the notes, Gold ambles into the kitchen to raid the refrigerator. He's shocked to find it nearly empty. He scrounges up a can of mushroom soup and another of tuna; that, along with crackers for a crust, gives him a casserole. Belle must have been too distraught this past week to go shopping. He will take care of that task tomorrow while she's at the library, and tonight he will take her out to eat. His poor sweetheart needs some nurturing.

As he serves up the casserole, Gold speculates on Scrooge's reasons for cheating him. He comes up as empty as his cupboards. As the bank's largest depositor, Gold was the golden goose for its employees. None of the bank's staff had supported CUSS, nor had Scrooge or his relatives owed Gold money, and Scrooge had had no previous association to Spencer–at least, not in Storybrooke. As for any connection they may have had elsewhere. . .Gold doesn't raise that possibility with Kamen.

"Well, let's catch our man first, then we'll ask him what he has against you," Kamen says cheerfully. He forks up a big bite of casserole with as much enthusiasm as if it were one of Fran's steaks.

Gold, too, finds his appetite returning.

* * *

><p>After Gold has driven Kamen back to Emma and Bae's for the night, he pulls into the mini-mart to fill up the gas tank. After paying, he counts the bills remaining in his wallet: there's not enough to take Belle out, so he runs his debit card through the ATM. He orders the maximum withdrawal, $400, so he can buy groceries tomorrow and have a nice cushion of cash: a stuffed wallet always cheers him up.<p>

The ATM spits his card out as if it were a slice of spoiled pork. "Insufficient funds!" the machine accuses him. He kicks it, then backs away before the clerk catches him.

From the mini-mart, he should turn east to get back home, but he turns south instead, telling himself it's a warm night and he's been cooped up for four days and Belle's not going to be home for another hour anyway. He cruises up and down the streets, crisscrossing the town, enjoying his freedom–except he's not. A tight band of tension is squeezing his chest and it's not the stars he's watching; it's the cars he's passing. Cars just sitting placidly in driveways, their owners tucked inside houses or apartments for the night, enjoying dinner and the company of spouses, as he should be, would be if Belle were not keeping a secret. He keeps rolling up and down those streets until he admits to himself he's looking for a Honda Fit, license plate "Readmore."

He finds it.

Parked in front of Room 101 at the Sleepybye Motel.

* * *

><p>She's better off, he tells himself after he's shattered his cane against the streetlight. He stands there in the flood of his headlights, leaning on the hood of his car because he needs the support, and he pants, partly from exhaustion, partly from anxiety. She's better off. Her new man is no doubt kinder, younger, and hasn't been in jail three times. Someone she can live a quiet, respectable life with. <em>Have<em> _kids_ _with_.

He waits an hour but she doesn't come out. Then the sobs come and there's no way in hell he'll allow the new man to see him like this, so he drives home, and he supposes he should find another place to sleep tonight, let her have the house, but Kamen is at Bae's and Josiah is her ex and he can't exactly go to the one motel in town, now can he? He can't even go to Storybrooke because he's not allowed to leave the county.

He decides to decide later. In the meantime, he'll kill a couple of hours in the bar. Except he doesn't have any money, so he goes home (is it still home?) and he raids the cookie jar, where, each night, they unload the loose change from their pockets before they go upstairs to bed: he finds less than two dollars there.

With his fingers still scrabbling for coins in the jar, he gets a grip on himself. True Love, stupid, he tells himself; her kiss broke his curse. Magic doesn't lie. The kiss proved she was destined for him. Belle doesn't lie: she vowed forever; her ring is the proof.

He's calling himself thirty-one varieties of jackass when a small, dismayed "oh" startles him and Belle's caught him with his hand literally in the cookie jar.

As he withdraws his hand, the rosy-cheeked ceramic Santa–a Christmas gift from Henry last year (Gold can still hear Belle laughing, "Henry, is this your subtle suggestion that I bake more cookies?")–crashes to the floor and shatters.

The first thing Gold notices is that Belle's hair is a damp mess and her hands are reddened. The second thing Gold notices is that she won't look him in the eye; she just stares at the fragments of Santa.

"What's going on, Belle?" His voice, hard, brooks no denial.

"I was hoping you wouldn't find out for another day or two, until I get paid." He can barely hear her.

He speaks louder. "What's going on, Belle?"

She turns and walks up the stairs. There's a moment of panic as he wonders if she's walking out on him, if she's going upstairs to pack. He follows, unsure what to do, how to stop her. If she's lost faith in him, surely he can win her back when he proves his innocence. All he has to do is to show her the forgeries; then she'll believe in him again.

His heart sinking, he follows her to their bedroom. Not again. He won't lose her again. She promised forever and he'll remind her they have a deal–

She's opening her dresser drawer. The top one, the underwear drawer. He gulps, "Belle, no."

Her shoulders are shaking with silent tears as she fishes some papers from the drawer. She comes toward him; he steps back. He won't accept them. If he doesn't sign them, he can prevent the divorce.

"These came the day you went to jail." Her voice is still weak. She holds the papers out and now he can see in bold letters the title "Notice of Levy." He doesn't know what that is, but it's not "Petition for Divorce" so he doesn't care.

Except Belle does, enough that she's crying openly now. "Rumple, it's all gone. We can't pay the mortgage, the phones, the lights. The check I wrote to Archie bounced. I had to borrow the money for Mr. Kamen's retainer from my father. I can't even pay Henry for mowing the lawn."

* * *

><p><strong>AN. Hats off to Deweymay and Twyla for correct guesses! And for those who wondered about the lawyers' names: Joseph Keaton is just a little homage to my favorite comic actor, but if Google Translator is right, "Saeva" means "savage" and "Anguem" means "snake." In Croatian, "Kamen" means "rock," so he might be someone Gold can depend upon; but according to another source I found, it means "masked" in Japanese, so maybe Kevin isn't what he appears to be.**


	68. Chapter 68

Chapter 68

Khan: _"Remember always that the wise man walks with his head bowed, humble like the dust."_

They fight. It's not just an argument; they've had a few of those before and always worked their way back into good humor. No, this is a full fight involving yelling, slammed doors and a cane-thrashed vase after Belle dashes out.

He knows as soon as the words leave his mouth he's screwed himself, but he can't hold back his anger. He doesn't want his wife on her knees scrubbing disgusting messes left by strangers, he shouts. Belle deserves better. She's too smart to waste her time cleaning up other people's messes. What he really means to say is _show me you trust me to make things right again, to take care of you again. Quit this other job and then I'll see you still believe in me._But he can't bring himself to that level of vulnerability, so he shouts and hopes she'll somehow hear what he can't say.

But she takes this as an insult to her fortitude, a challenge to her resourcefulness, a denial of her responsibilities as his partner in life. Hands on her hips, she gets up in his face. "Well, listen to Mr. Hoity Toity. May I remind you, King Rumple, how we met? When you were the Dark One and I was a lady, you didn't think me too delicate to clean up your messes. In fact, you thought it was funny to have a noblewoman scrubbing your floors. And we get to this land, and what do you have me doing here? Hmmm? For thirty years I'm your maid."

"That wasn't my doing. The curse–"

She throws her hands into the air. "The curse, the curse, the curse! Well, here's another reminder: the curse didn't create itself, dearie! And while you were busy creating it, who was trailing along behind you with mop and bucket to tidy up your spills? If cleaning up after you in two worlds wasn't beneath me, then why am I too good for cleaning up after strangers?"

Caught, a deer in headlights, he apologizes. "I didn't mean it that way. I just–I'm your husband. I should be taking care of you–"

"Don't give me that chauvinist crap! I can work, I want to work, I will work! You knew from the beginning I was no china doll to be sat on your shelf. You told me that's why you bargained for me, because I was strong enough to stand beside you. Well, I'm smarter and stronger now than I was then, and being your wife has been a source of that strength, so get used to it, bub!"

"I'm not saying you can't be a librarian. That's a noble profession, worthy of you, but–"

"Oh no, do _not_ go there!" She waves a warning finger. "You will not tell me what jobs I can or can't take. I don't do that to you; you will not do that to me. I'm your wife, your lover, your helpmeet, and you will honor me, whatever jobs I do, just as I honor you."

"It's because I honor you that–oh hell. I said my piece. Let's drop it. Otherwise Spencer wins. We can't let him drive a wedge between us."

"Of course we won't. We took vows and a Gold never breaks a vow. But right now, I'm mad as a gauntlet-slapped jouster, so I need to go out for a while. I'm going to Ruby's. I may decide to spend the night there." She bangs the front door behind her. "I'll be back for breakfast, if not before. Remember to eat something tonight."

* * *

><p>She's back at eight a.m. to dress for work and have breakfast. They follow through with their good-morning kiss and murmured apologies before she leaves for the library. As he hears her car start up, he thinks it needs a tune up–he doesn't know how. It makes him feel doubly ashamed that he can't even do that for her.<p>

* * *

><p>He feels awkward, standing here on Bae's front porch, waiting to be asked in. He keeps flashing back to the peasant days, when he'd have to go digging for roots so that he could put something on the table for Bae. He realizes he's being ridiculous; he and Belle are far from those near-starvation days, but the principle is the same: he's the chief breadwinner, and he's not bringing home so much as a crust today. It's hard for him to look another man in the eye, especially one who remembers what a loser he was in his previous life. But there's no condemnation in Bae's eyes as he opens the door and invites him inside; no shame in Henry's manly thump-on-the-back hug as the boy greets his gramps; no judgment in Emma's grin as she asks if he's had breakfast yet and would he like a cup of Java and a sinker anyway, because they overslept and they're just now sitting down to their bacon and eggs. He accepts the java and sinker and the chair across from Kamen, who's munching toast and comparing "best moments in baseball" stories with Bae and Henry.<p>

"What can we do about this levy?" Gold interrupts the sports talk.

"I'll file a request for a collection due process hearing this morning."

"And in what percentage of those requests have you been successful?" Gold can't keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Kamen looks at him hard. "It's your only recourse at this time."

A car horn beeps from the street and Henry grabs his backpack and a donut before shouting farewells and galloping out to the curb. "Grace Hatter," Emma explains with a glint in her eye. "She passed her drivers' test last month. First one in their class to get a license."

"Sheesh. It'll be college next," Bae remarks. "And before long, marriage and parenthood."

Emma chokes on her eggs. "Don't start, Bae. I'm not ready for granny panties yet. Besides, when we're grandparents, your Pop and Belle will be great-grandparents."

"Oi. On a happier note, FedEx picked up those copies this morning." Gold addresses Kamen. "How long will it take your friend to examine the documents?"

"I know you're anxious; so am I. I can't wait to blow this phony accusation out of the water. But handwriting analysis shouldn't be rushed. Even though it's admissible in court, judges don't have a lot of faith in it. Give April time to put together a detailed, thorough report."

"Here's an interesting little factoid," Emma produces a bunch of stapled pages from her purse and gives them to Kamen. "Over the past year, Spencer called Sidney nine times. Sidney called Spencer nineteen times. And I thought this was weird, but after what Kevin told us last night, not so much any more: Spencer called Wilford Scrooge's cell twenty-seven times in the past twelve months."

"Asking about that free calendar the bank gives out at Christmas, no doubt," Bae quips. "And according to our sources–none of them court-worthy, I'm afraid, just hearsay–Sid had lunch at Granny's with Wil several times. Spencer was never seen with them, but he made a lot of visits to the bank."

"Ruby remembers overhearing Willie say to Sid, 'He keeps them in his study, ground floor, northwest corner of the house.'"

"My house," Gold growls.

"And he was drawing something on a napkin. She tried to sneak a peek but they heard her coming and hid the napkin."

"Scrooge has been in my house several times," Gold reveals. "Dropping off and picking up documents."

"Sid, Scrooge and Spencer haven't had any contact with each other since the arrest," Bae says, carefully avoiding the phrase _your arrest_. "As far as we can determine, anyway. That's all we have for now, but I'm sure we'll have more soon." He fixes Gold in his gaze. "Pop, we've got eyes and ears all over Storybrooke. If you thought a lot of people supported you during the exile thing, you should see how many more want to help now. They want you back on the job at the hospital, ASAP. Not that Bernie's not good with kids, but," he shrugs, "they relate to you, because of your disability. The hospital staff say they see a real improvement after your visits: the kids cooperate better, eat more, sleep better. Whale says to tell you get your rear in gear with this legal thing so you can come back. The kids miss you."

Gold's mouth twitches. "Me too."

"Well, don't get bummed out. People are on the move," Emma assures Gold. "A miracle could happen."

* * *

><p>Standing on the sidewalk, Gold adjusts his tie and his attitude. He's about to do something he's never done before, and it's damn hard, considering his age and his position–his <em>former<em> position in this town. He starts forward, reaching out for the door handle to Paul's Electronic Repair, but then he freezes. The little speech he's practiced rolls itself up into a ball like a pill bug and skitters to the back of his brain. As Persie passes by him with a cheery hello, he drops his hand and pretends to be admiring a motorcycle parked at the curb. Persie chuckles and walks past: let her think he's contemplating buying a bike. Better she think he's hit a mid-life crisis than hit the skids.

Who's he kidding? They all know his circumstances. He presses his lips together and, reminding himself that his wife, the someday mother of his future children, is right now scrubbing toilets in the Sleepybye Motel. This is as shameful as his encounter with Hordor.

"Good morning, Paul," he says as he enters the shop.

"Morning, Rumple," the shop owner glances up from an oscillating fan he's taking apart. "What's new?" Then Paul reddens, because he already knows what's new in Gold's life and it's the kind of thing casual acquaintances don't talk about.

"Well, ah, the sign in your window. . . ."

"Oh, the Blu-Ray player? Yeah, I'm asking fifty for it. Secondhand but it works great."

"No, the other one, the, ah, 'help wanted.'"

Paul grins. "Oh, yeah. Henry looking for an after-school job, is he? Tell him to stop by this afternoon and we'll talk."

"No, I. . . " Gold squares his shoulders. "I'd like to. Apply, that is." He plunges on, though he can see the answer already formed on Paul's lips. "You know I ran my own shop for a long time, fixed all kinds of things, everything from mending cracked table lamps to rewiring electric fans." He nods at the oscillator. "I'm very good with my hands and–". he lets his voice trail. "I'd be willing to work on a trial basis."

"Oh." Paul busies himself with a screwdriver so he doesn't have to look up. "I'm sorry, Rumple. It's just an errand boy kind of thing. Minimum wage, making deliveries. I don't do enough business here to take on another repairman. I figured it as an after-school job for a kid. Sorry."

"Oh. Sure. I understand." Gold starts to leave. "I'll pass the word to Henry. Thanks anyway."

"Sure. See you at the Fishing Tournament Saturday?"

"You bet." Gold gnaws on his lip. "Paul, if you hear of something. . . ."

"I'll give you a call. My best to Belle."

"And mine to Betty."

* * *

><p>"Is Gold the new orange?" Goldie Lockley teases. "If so, we're predicting the new orange will be gold. Mr. Gold versus the IRS: and our silver is on Gold to come out victorious."<p>

"Turn it off, please, Henry." Gold feels a headache coming on.

Reluctantly his grandson shuts off the Youtube video he wanted to show Gold on his phone. "Just wanted to show you, _GMS_ is on your side. They're the most-watched local program in the two-county region; they've got influence."

"They're the only local show in the region, other than the _Sunday_ _Night_ _Creature_ _Feature_ with Dr. San Guinary and _Puppies_, _Puppies_, _Puppies_ with Prince David," Belle says mildly.

"They really do have influence though," Bae says. "The newspaper ran a poll yesterday: seventy-nine percent of Storybrookers think you're innocent."

"Yes, and forty percent think I'm cute."

"Forty-three," Belle corrects.

"Things are happening in Storybrooke," Emma says vaguely. "Things that could help. Just be patient."

Gold frowns suspiciously. "What sorts of things?"

"Nothing violent, nothing nasty. . . exactly. Just things. You'll see."

"Well, if you don't mind, Henry, I'd rather watch some of those Roy Rogers DVDs." Gold motions toward the television and taking the hint, Henry slides off the couch and onto the floor to dig into the DVD cabinet. "Sounds good, Grandpa." He reads the covers of the first two DVDs he grabs. "_Apache_ _Rose_ or _Under California Stars_?"

"Need you ask?"

"Oh, yeah." Henry studies the cover. "We gotta have Dale." He slides the former disc into the player's tray.

"Roy without Dale is like Bae without Emma," Bae reaches up to the woman sitting on his lap and strokes her back.

Gold glances questioningly at Belle.

"We're Rumbelle." She kisses his palm. "We're endgame."

* * *

><p>"Hey Pop," Bae's calling from his car. "Em said to tell you Grayson's call log shows a shoplifting complaint around August last year: Storybrooke Hardware. A locksmith kit. No witnesses, no security camera, no arrest."<p>

* * *

><p>"Good morning. I saw your ad in the paper."<p>

"Good afternoon. I was told you might be hiring."

"Hi, Arnie. Looks like business has really taken off here. You know, I'm pretty handy with all sorts of tools. . . ."

They're as embarrassed as he is. They respect him, care about him, would give the shirts off their backs for him, because they've seen him do the same for this town. But to have Mr. Gold come to work for them. . . to ask him to wear a smock and a plastic name tag that says "Rumple," to require him to call them "Mr." or "Ms." while they call him by his first name and order him around. . . . Besides, he belongs in Armani and at the head of a mahogany table, not selling hardware. . .not snaking out hair-clogged drains. . . Not repairing toasters. . .not driving a garbage truck. . .not bussing tables. . .not doing whatever work they have to offer.

Not scrubbing toilets. It just isn't _right_. Not Mr. Gold. They just can't see him that way. It's hard enough watching their beloved librarian drag a vacuum cleaner from motel room to motel room, but at least she used to be a maid and she seems okay with resuming her old vocation, humming along with her iPod as she changes the bed linens. Besides, they've seen her do such work at the library, where babies spit up on her shoulder and toddlers spill sippy cups and pre-schoolers get overexcited and puke.

But they've never seen Mr. Gold doing manual labor, apart from gardening—and hey, even Prince Charles gardens.

So they pretend not to see his desperation and they ask if he'll make the next committee meeting, because they sure do need his guidance. When he doesn't show up for the meetings, they bring the meetings to him, along with take-out from Persie's. They ignore the condition he and his house are in. They ignore his sullen silence, yanking the ideas out of him, forcing him to forget, for an hour, what's changed, forcing him to remember who and what he was to them, before. They're as desperate as he is for a return to normal.

* * *

><p>"Isn't there anything we can do?" he presses Kamen for the fourth time. They're talking by phone, as Kamen has had to go back to Boston to work with other clients while they wait for a court date. "All my assets are frozen. My personal accounts, the shop, Treadle. Bae and Josiah and I have no means of making a living. We can't draw a paycheck, we can't sell anything from the shop, even the income from my rental properties is inaccessible. Bae's hired on with the Public Works Department, Josiah's washing dishes in his wife's restaurant. I can't even sell my house or my car. The only money we have to live on is what Belle makes." He's relieved that they're talking by phone so Kamen can't see him.<p>

"I filed the protest last week," Kamen reminds him. "All we can do now is wait for a date to be set for the collection due process hearing."

They've been through this before, but Gold is desperate. He's walked all over town, asking for work, only to find there is none he's suited for. His age and his status go against him; people have heard about the levy–it's headline news in this small town–and they're sympathetic, but he's overqualified for most jobs. He learns to dress down and talk down as he applies for everything from sporting goods salesman to grocery cashier.

After the IRS rejects the request for a hearing, he stops calling Kamen. When the lawyer calls him, his replies to Kamen's questions are brief and dull. Not even the announcement of a court date, six months from the day of the arrest, brings him out of his lethargy.


	69. Chapter 69

Chapter 69

Po: "_Time is carving you, Grasshopper. Let yourself be shaped according to your true nature."_

They first give up the luxuries, of course, items they once considered essential: nights out, new clothes, DVDs, the Internet. He trades his iPad and iPod for credit at the gas station. She keeps her Surface, in anticipation of next year, when the trial will be over and he can reopen the shop and reclaim his rental income. They say "when this is over," but they stop saying, "when things go back to normal." When this is over, there will be no return. As the newscasters say of the sputtering economy in the rest of the country (and no, Belle argues, misery does not love company) they're living "the new normal."

In the second month they give up his phone. One phone is enough. They give up cable TV and CDs and borrow their entertainment from the library. Belle's birthday comes and all he can give her is a bouquet of wildflowers he picked in the woods. She cries when Henry brings her a gift, the new Margaret Atwood. He paid for it out of earnings from his after-school job.

That night when she's in bed, Gold attacks a couch cushion with his cane.

He stops driving the gas guzzling Caddy. He'd like to trade it in for a Smart car, but the Caddy isn't his to dispose of. He imagines some gray-faced IRS accountant seated behind the Caddy's wheel, driving it off to a federal property auction. Will the agent look in the glove compartment and take notice of the flawless maintenance record, and by it know that this car was owned by someone who took pride in it?

Early on, he stops wearing suits; who's to see, anyway? As the third month fades into the fourth, he stops shaving. He sometimes wears the same shirt for two or three days. How dirty could it be, he argues with himself, when he doesn't do anything but watch broadcast TV and sleep.

It's infomercials and talk shows he watches, though he falls asleep on them. Not his westerns. Not _Kung_ _Fu_. He doesn't have the energy to think.

* * *

><p>After months of searching for a job that doesn't exist, he stops going out. It sneaks up on him: one morning he just decides his ankle hurts and he'll skip the Development Committee meeting as well as the job search for that day. He does the laundry and vacuums, and he has a meal waiting for Belle when she returns from the library that night. He's too ashamed to eat with her: all he can provide for her is hot dogs, paid for out of her salary. After setting the table, he retreats to his study and closes the door. He waits until she's fallen asleep before he climbs into bed beside her.<p>

It becomes a routine. He doesn't eat with her; he seldom eats at all. He starts going to bed later and later, and then he stops going upstairs at all. His ankle hurts, he mumbles; he doesn't feel like navigating the stairs. She knows it's a lie but she's too tired to argue. She's working seven days a week to keep hot dogs on the table.

He goes fishing sometimes, not to relax but because they need the meat. Where they used to eat coconut chicken and pot roast and mushroom risotto, they now eat ramen and macaroni and peanut butter. He learns an interesting fact: it's easier to gain weight when you can't afford fresh food.

Bae calls, inviting him and Belle to Sunday dinners: neither Bae nor Emma can cook, but the Golds go anyway, to keep the family together, they tell each other. They always make it potluck, because the Swan-Golds are living on one paycheck too. But as the weeks pass, those Sunday dinners become Gold's only appearances outside his house.

Bernie comes to see him at first, bearing messages from the kids at the hospital and iPhone recordings of her shows. But her bubbly reports depress him, so quietly Blue advises Bernie not to visit Gold any more. It isn't long before the children he knew are replaced by others, just as he was replaced by Bernie, and soon no one remembers there was a Gold the Great.

Without a phone, he can't call Archie any more. Without the Internet, he can't Skype with Won-Que. He gives up his lame attempts at meditation.

At first he works as diligently at maintaining the house as he used to the shop, but gradually he pares back, especially as they fall behind in the mortgage payments. He calls the bank to try to refinance, but his old good buddy John Nichols, president, seems to always be out of the office whenever he calls. "Funny," he growls at the receptionist, "for thirty years he never once was out when I called." "Sorry, Mr. Gold," is the receptionist's only answer. He finally gets through by altering his voice and using an alias. His request for a reconsideration of his mortgage is turned down. Nichols is no longer afraid of him, now that he can't leave Bell County.

Belle takes a day off work and drives into Storybrooke with Blue. She wears her best dress and her warmest smile and she's armed with a refinancing plan Gold has drawn up, but even with all that and a nun, she fails to convince Nichols. "They smell blood," she complains. "A chance to buy back our house for pennies, once the IRS confiscates it."

Gold prepares her a cup of tea and retreats to his study.

She comes to him that night, rattling the door knob, then knocking when she finds the door locked. When he opens the door, he fails to invite her in. She stares at him with eyes full of hurt. He doesn't know what to say to her. She stares a long moment, then walks away.

* * *

><p>"Grayson let me look through my old jail logs from when I was sheriff of Storybrooke. Professional courtesy. I might've neglected to tell him I resigned from law enforcement," Emma says. "Something had been bothering me, but I couldn't quite recall 'til I reread those logs. The night after my mom banished Regina, I arrested Sid for d and d."<p>

"Dungeons and Dragons?" Gold puzzles.

"Drunk and disorderly. Poor Sid kept moaning about his beautiful queen. How he would've done anything for her. Had done everything she asked, but she betrayed him over and over."

"Nothing new there."

"But wait. He blamed you. Said you drove her away. Tricked mom into exiling her. Said if you just disappeared, she could come back and be the queen again."

"She hadn't met her garbage collector yet," Gold says dryly. "She's happy now. She wouldn't come back even if Snow handed her an orb and scepter."

"I kept him overnight so he could sober up. I remember he seemed a lot calmer in the morning. I thought he'd probably talked himself out of any notions he had of messing with you. And then the whole CUSS thing happened and I figured that was his big get-even. Now I wonder."

"Unfortunately, wondering isn't evidence."

"No, but it showed me that Sid has a habit of drinking when he's mooning over Regina."

"Emma, you're not thinking of inviting Sid out for a nightcap, are you? D and d confessions aren't admissible either."

"Did you know, Pop, I was known, in my wilder years, for drinking men under the table?"

"Emma. . . ."

"Things are happening, Pop. Expect a miracle."

* * *

><p>Bae drops by on his way to work; when Gold doesn't answer the door, he lets himself in with his duplicate key. Gold learns this in a most disappointing way: he awakens from his morning nap (not to be confused with the mid-morning, early afternoon and late afternoon naps) to find a note from Bae taped to the study door. "Look on your desk for a present from Henry" is all it says. "Love, B."<p>

On the desk is a neatly typed essay entitled "The Person I Admire Most." Gold grunts, giving it a cursory glance, then he looks again: the individual given that glorious distinction is "my grandfather, Rumple Gold, whose [sic] been through all kinds of crap but he keeps on keeping on."

A fable, of course.

There's an A- in red ink on the top margin of the first page; a note beneath says "It would have been an A except for the inappropriate language." The word _crap_ is circled in red. Gold chuckles: it's the most beautiful _crap_ he's ever seen.

Gold sits down to read the essay, aloud, in a hoarse voice. Four times. Then he kicks his desk with every intention of causing himself discomfort, because clearly, his grandson feels such a deep need to cheer him up that he lied to his teacher.

* * *

><p>He's breaking the law. Not that he hasn't before, in much bigger ways–maybe it's the pettiness of his crime that bothers him. Or maybe it's Henry's essay, which he read aloud to Belle last night as he sat at the kitchen table with her, for the first time in a long time. She struggled to congratulate him around a mouthful of peanut butter, but a glob of jelly slid onto her uniform. He kissed her despite the mess, and for a moment they felt normal. But then as he washed dishes and discovered a leak in the dishwasher, the black clouds came back and Belle went to bed alone as he slumped on the couch, clicking through infomercials.<p>

And now he's, sort of, stealing from the IRS. Ironic, he supposes. The levy forbids him from selling any of his property, in case he loses the trial and the IRS needs to confiscate it to recoup the unpaid taxes. He's already traded his iPad and iPod for gas, so it's no big leap to sell off a painting, a pair of cutlasses and an antique radio that he'd brought home from the shop, months before The Arrest, to work on. What really bugs him is that he has to get Bae to pawn the stuff for him, since it must be done out of county, since Gold & Dove is the only antique shop in Bell County. Bae gets a good price for the stuff, enough to catch the Golds up with the electric company and make a mortgage payment.

The trouble is, three other mortgage payments go unattended.

* * *

><p>"Marco stopped me on the street today," Emma reports, "while I was in Storybrooke. Pulled me into his shop to show me an order he'd filled for Sid, last fall. An odd order: Sid wanted a desk drawer made, to replace a cracked one. Marco said fine, take me to see the desk. Sid showed him a photo instead, gave him measurements. Marco thought that was weird, but Sid offered twice what Marco would've charged, so he did the work." Her phone is set on speaker so that her father-in-law, seated across from her at his kitchen table, can participate in her call to Kamen.<p>

"Let me guess: the drawer had a false bottom," Gold says.

"Sid claimed it was to hide jewelry in."

"Now we've got something I can use in court," Kamen crows. "Give me Marco's phone number."

* * *

><p>The exasperated "really?" is an irritating habit Belle picked up from Emma, Gold thinks, and she's using it now as she surveys the dirty dishes in the sink, the crumbs on the kitchen table, the dust on the floor. "You were home all day–"<p>

"Don't go there," he mutters, yet she goes there. Loudly.

"–and you couldn't even wash the dishes? Or take the clothes out of the dryer? Or bring the mail in? Ten minutes of your time, is that too much to ask?" She slams the dishwasher door. "I know you're depressed, but my gods, Rumple, you'll never feel better if you don't get up off that damn–"

The door to his study bangs and clicks behind him.

* * *

><p>Blue drops in while Belle is at work at one of her jobs (he can no longer keep track which). She adjusts the wicker basket she carries on her arm and clicks her tongue in disgust as she appraises him, his bare feet, his paint-stained jeans (the ones he wore when he painted a bedroom for Adelena, a lifetime ago), his stubble, his shaggy hair. "You look awful."<p>

"Now, dearie, do I come to your home and criticize your choice of clothes?"

"You don't come to my home at all any more." She sounds hurt. "You've neglected the garden. You didn't show up for the class on end-of-life pain relief we were supposed to teach last week. You haven't produced a single drop of herbal medication in weeks. You're failing in your promises, Rumplestiltskin. That's not like you." She sails past him into his kitchen and he follows.

"Haven't you heard, Reverend Mother?" he sneers. "I'm a fraud, a sneak thief, stealing from the poor. I'm a leech, living off my wife now."

She sets the wicker basket on the counter. "How many years did you search for your son, Rumplestiltskin? How many spells, potions, magic mirrors, magic beans, magic shoes did you try? You didn't give up on him. Why are you giving up on yourself? Why are you letting the bastards beat you?" When he sulks in silence, she unpacks the basket. "Carrots. Lettuce. Cucumbers. Tomatoes. Onions. Snap peas." She raises a warning finger. "No. No argument. This food belongs to you as much as it does me. You planted it alongside me. You grew it. I had expected we would harvest it and share it, as we did before. I'm insulted that you abandoned our work." She collects her basket and walks back through the dining room to the foyer. "I'll be harvesting herbs tomorrow, eight a.m. I expect you there."

He closes and locks the door behind her. When Belle returns home that night, she finds the vegetables still sitting out on the counter. He can't look at her when she asks where the food came from.

* * *

><p>The next morning, he sleeps until 10, until Blue's angry pounding awakens him, and when he opens the door and his mouth to cuss at her, she thrusts a wicker basket at his chest and drags him to her Toyota and pushes him into the passenger seat and kidnaps him, makes him drop to his knees in their garden and coax life from the soil. He says nothing to her all day, so she doesn't try to converse. At dusk when she drives him home, as he's easing out of her car, his ankle burning from the labor, he finally has something to say: "You need a tune-up."<p>

* * *

><p>"April's report came in."<p>

Gold, half-asleep, manages to growl into the phone (Belle's phone, because he doesn't have one, because a man who sits around on his ass all day has no need for one), "Who?"

"April. The handwriting expert. Our number one hope."

"And?"

"The documents are a near-perfect match."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, she would testify that the tax returns and the bookkeeping records for Treadle and the shop that were sent to the IRS–she would testify the same man wrote them. You."

"It's a lie."

"It's the best forgery April's ever seen."

"What do we do now?"

"Hire another analyst. But Rumple–"

"Our best hope is gone."

"Yeah." Kamen sighs. "Well, we've still got Marco and the fake-bottomed drawer."

"Hey, Marco always puts a craftsman's mark—"

"Sorry, Rumple, he told me Sid specifically instructed him not to brand the drawer. Guess the Bad S's were thinking ahead. . . Rumple? You okay?"

"I'd say I'm far from okay—being screwed. 'Bye, Kevin."

"Rumple—"

* * *

><p>On the first day of the fourth month, they receive a notice of foreclosure. He can't get out of bed that day. Belle goes to Storybrooke to argue; the bank shows her that their mortgage payments are in arrears–no news there. Ironically, she reminds them of the levy–the IRS technically owns the property for the time being. The bank president admits a mistake has been made and promises to correct it, yet the next morning, when Belle leaves for work, they find a "For sale" sign in the yard. Belle won't allow him to smash it. Canes are too expensive to replace.<p>

When Jo comes by that evening to give the Honda a tune-up ("Hell, no, I won't take no money for it! I just want something to do! I'm bored off my ass."), he takes care of the sign with his crowbar ("Oops, I thought it was firewood"). The next morning, an eviction notice is nailed to their front door.

* * *

><p><strong>AN. A tip of the hat to Twyla, whose "Smoke and Ashes" reminded me to think globally, and film writer Philip Van Doren Stern, whose _It's a_ _Wonderful Life_ reminded me to think communally. And thanks, Cynicsquest, for "the Bad S's." Kamen now has a quick way to refer the baddies!**


	70. Chapter 70

Chapter 70

Khan: _"Do wars, famine, disease and death exist? Do lust, greed and hate exist?"_

Caine: _"They do, but how? Where do they come from?"_

Khan: "_They are man's creations, brought to being by the dark side of his nature."_

Caine: _"How can man rid himself of such terrible things?"_

Khan: _"Each man must start with himself, within himself, by slowly forging his chi, the inner essence of his spirit and the limitless power of the universe. Only thus can you conquer the power and the presence of evil."_

* * *

><p>"Thirty days," she reads from the eviction notice. "We have to be out in thirty days. We can't take any furniture or appliances. There's a list of what we're allowed to take." She drops the pages onto the dining table.<p>

It's the last straw for Belle; Gold understands that. She's so brave and strong, but she's tired in body and soul, not just from their economic and legal woes, but also from her own bitter disappointment over their inability to conceive. Perhaps, he thinks, fate was looking out for them by not granting their wish, for what could they provide an infant now, besides an overworked, absent mother and a useless father?

Gold manages to summon enough energy to hold her as she cries. He murmurs to her as he strokes her hair, but they both know he's lying when he promises things will be better soon. She finally cries herself out, gets up to shower while he prepares her a cup of tea (from store-brand tea bags; he shudders) and a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar. She eats dutifully, because she will be cleaning hotel rooms for four hours, then dashing to the library for another nine, so she needs some nutrition.

He crawls back to the couch in his study and lies down as she readies herself for work. Turning onto his side, burying his face in the arm of the couch, he can't decide which feels worse: shame or dread.

He hears her heels clacking on the hard-wood floors, and that decides it for him: the shame is worse. His wife has to work thirteen hours today, while he can't even get a job sacking groceries.

It suddenly occurs to him: maybe no employer needs him, but Belle does. He sits up before he realizes what he's doing. He gets to his feet and pulls on his sneakers and grabs his cane and hurries into the foyer where Belle is gathering her purse and keys, and he seizes her arm. She raises her eyebrows in surprise.

"Why can't it be me?"

"Huh?"

"Me. Cleaning the motel. So you can get some rest."

She smiles tiredly. "Thank you, Rumple. That's sweet, but impractical. Your ankle couldn't take it, going up and down stairs, dragging vacuum cleaners and mop buckets and cleaning carts around, kneeling to scrub porcelain."

"I'll give myself plenty of breaks."

"No, you can't. Eight rooms have to be cleaned before noon. Four hours may seem like plenty of time, but for an experienced cleaner it's thirty minutes per room. No breaks." She carries her leather shoes and a dress in a garment bag so she can change just as soon as she gets to the library.

"But—"

"I appreciate the offer, I really do, but we can't afford a trip to the doctor if you hurt your ankle. Maybe you could call the bank and try to negotiate an extension?" She kisses his cheek and rushes out to her car as he stands in the open door, gaping. When her car is out of sight, he returns to his couch.

* * *

><p>Just before noon, Archie shows up on Gold's doorstep. "I assume you're here to borrow my Fenwick Eagle," Gold says coolly, "because I can't afford for you to try to cheer me up."<p>

"You can make a deal, can't you?" Archie pushes his way inside. "A one-to-one trade: one hour of therapy for one hour of spinning lessons." At Gold's snort, Archie barks, "You think psychiatrists don't get stressed? I've got fifteen hundred displaced fairy tale characters to treat! I need a stress reliever. Teach me to spin and I'll teach you how to cope with unemployment."

"Forget it. It would take months."

"Which would take months? Learning to spin or getting you back on track?" Archie nods toward the kitchen. "Why don't you offer me a cup of coffee and we'll negotiate?"

"You're a poor liar, Archie. You no more want to learn to spin than Josiah wants to learn to pirouette. But I'll put on the coffee pot and we can negotiate another deal, one where, if you'll let me run a tab, I'll pay for your services with interest, after I have my money back." Gold stares at the floor. "The fact is, I'm not just poor right now, I'm worthless, and I'm afraid of losing my family because of it."

"Rumple, it may shed some light on things if I tell you Belle asked me to come. She's afraid she's losing you too."

Gold raises his eyes to Archie's then as he comes to understand what he risks if he continues wandering in the neverland of self-pity. His family is all he has left, and it's everything that matters. "I really need this deal. Are we in agreement, Doctor Hopper?"

"We're in agreement, Mr. Gold." Both men release pent-up breath. They work that morning on buoying Gold's spirits enough that he can ask to borrow Archie's phone so he can call John Nichols—and not threaten every banker in Maine with extinction when Nichols blithely informs him, "Mr. Gold, we have been more than generous in giving you a full month, as opposed to the legal minimum of three days. We at Storybrooke Bank are not heartless; in fact, we are loathe to remove people from homes—"

"Especially a $600,000 house that no one within a hundred miles can afford," Gold growls.

"All you have to do is to make four payments, just $14,000, and then we'll cancel the eviction, gladly. For a man worth more than a billion dollars—"

"You know bloody well I can't touch any of that money!"

"You have thirty days, Mr. Gold. We hope to hear from you before then."

Gold is shaking as he returns Archie's phone.

"Let's have a cup of tea," Archie suggests, "and discuss options."

It's a favored word for a deal maker: _options_. But _options_ means more than one choice, and an hour of brain-wracking produces only two: borrow from a loan shark (the names of a few are in Gold's Rolodex; from time to time in the old days, he sold them antiques for their own lovely homes) or look for an apartment that Belle's salary can cover.

Considering what he knows about loan sharks, Gold's inclined to go with the latter.

"You will not be homeless," Archie says firmly, a distant look in his eyes.

Gold's eyes roam around the kitchen. "When we had this house built, I didn't have to take out a mortgage. I could have liquidated some CD's, some rental properties, and paid cash."

"I see where you're going, Rumple, but it's pointless to second-guess the past. And you can't give up on your dream, not yet. You have thirty days, two strong arms, a clever mind and a town full of friends."

* * *

><p>Belle comes to him that night when he's sleeping on the couch. He awakens to her body pressed against his back, her hand under his shirt. He pretends to be asleep still, but she knows better. She nips at his ear; that's always turned him on. "Rumple." He can hear and smell her desire. "Please. It's been four months."<p>

He says nothing, just lies there staring in the dark. She opens the buttons of his shirt, runs her warm hand over his chest, his belly. "Don't you want me any more?"

He can't let her hurt like this. He rolls onto his back, drags her on top of him, her hair falling into his face; he pushes it back. A dab of perfume is all she's wearing. He runs his finger over her lips and she takes his finger into her mouth, making his breathing hitch. He sinks his hand in her hair, pulling her forward so he can kiss her thoroughly, and when her breath hitches too, his other hand slides down her shoulder, her hip and lower. He gives as much as he can of himself, stirring her to excitement, but he can't give everything. He gives her release but not the assurance she needs.

"I'm sorry." He pushes her hand away gently but cradles her against his chest. "I can't."

"What did I do wrong?" He feels her shiver.

"Nothing. I just. . . " he sucks in a breath. "I don't feel. . . don't feel like much of a man any more."

"I want you back, Rumple. I understand, but this is hard on me too, and I need you."

"Later, I promise. I just can't right now."

* * *

><p>Archie comes back the next morning, and interestingly, Blue is just a beat behind him. Gold scowls at them both; they've disturbed his mid-morning nap. But they chatter between themselves about trivialities and try to drag him into the conversation, and just as bold as you please, Blue moves around his kitchen, unpacking the fresh eggs and blueberry muffins that she has brought in her basket. "The baking bug bit Cecilia," Blue explains. "We have muffins, cupcakes, dinner rolls, croissants and cakes all over the convent kitchen. She's taking them in to sell at the second-hand shop, but I managed to snag these. I was hoping to catch Belle before she had leave for work. I know she loves blueberries."<p>

Gold says nothing, so Blue continues, "I'll leave these in the bread box, then, and she can enjoy them tonight. But meanwhile," she takes out the skillet—she knows exactly where it's kept—and sets it on the stove. "Archie, if you'll chop the tomatoes and peppers in my basket, we'll have omelets." She blinks innocently at her scowling host. "Do you have any cheese, Mr. Gold?" Before he can throw out a snide remark, she's directing Archie, informing him of where he can find a knife and a cutting board.

They're eating before Gold gets around to saying anything. "It's good," he concedes.

The nun is pleased. "Thank you."

"She used fresh blueberries."

"That's Cecilia. Nothing by half measure."

"Welcome to the world of the living, Rumple," Archie quips. "After we finish brunch, you and I are going to wash dishes, and then we're going to ask Mother Superior to excuse us while we go out in your backyard and have a nice long chat."

"After I run some errands, I thought I'd take some of Cecilia's kolaches over to the library as a little surprise lunch for the staff. It's National Library Week; they deserve a treat."

Gold stares at his plate.

"I expect you at the convent this afternoon," Blue frowns at him. "We need to prepare the devil's claw mixture for Mr. Shoemaker's arthritis. You know how tricky the balance in that mixture is. I can't do it without you."

Gold closes his eyes painfully, but he's not sure if the pain is issuing from his reluctance to leave the house or from his shame at his laziness. Finally he nods, then picks up his dishes and carries them to the sink. As Archie brings other dishes to him, Gold watches the detergent bubbles rise as he fills the sink with water. "Thank you." He leaves it to his guests to figure out which of them he's thanking and why.

* * *

><p>The next day, neither Archie nor Blue comes; they have appointments in Storybrooke. But before Belle awakens, Gold showers and puts on a clean shirt and prepares her a breakfast.<p>

It's as much as he can manage. When she leaves, he retreats to his couch.

* * *

><p>Emma's learned that, some years ago, Scrooge lost his life savings in a Ponzi scheme. How curious, then, that he bounced back so quickly and so well that, less than a year later, he had bought a new Trans Am for himself, a BMW for his girlfriend and a Yugo for his wife.<p>

"Of course, he did suffer another loss a few months after he bought those cars. His wife found out about the BMW and took him to the cleaner's. He bounced back once again, though," Emma muses. "Enough to buy an emerald necklace as a Christmas present for Ms. BMW."

"Some guys have the most remarkable luck," Gold says.

* * *

><p>Archie comes back, bearing orange juice and breakfast tacos. He finds Gold dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, wrinkled and a bit smelly. "It's going to be one of those days, is it?" Archie sighs. "Kitchen." It's not a suggestion; it's a demand. He forces Gold to eat, then to talk, and to clean up the kitchen at the same time.<p>

After an hour of listening to Gold bemoan his fate, Archie snaps. "That's enough. You've moaned and groaned long enough; now quit yer bitchin', as my mama used to say. You've got the right to complain, sure; you're getting the shaft, no doubt about it. But your bitchin' is getting you nowhere. How long has it been since you applied for a job? How long has it been since you called your lawyer to talk about your case? Good gods, man, strategy is your middle name, so why aren't you doing it?" Archie literally throws in the towel, tossing his damp dish towel onto the counter. "Look, I can give you anti-depressants, but I think some fresh air and sunlight would serve you better. And some productive work, instead of sitting around on that scrawny ass. The Mr. Gold _I_ knew would have been in his shop hours ago, taking inventory or something. But then, the Mr. Gold I knew was a thinker, always had some plan brewing."

Gold picks at the label on the bottle of dish soap.

Archie demands, "Well? Why aren't you cussing me and waving your cane around? I just insulted you."

"You're right."

"You're not even going to fight back?" Archie deflates. "Maybe you do need those meds." He ponders a moment, then reaches for his phone. "Let's get Josiah out here for some fishing. A dose of lithium would do us both good." After making the call, he reminds his client, "You're not the only one hurting, Rumple. Two other families are struggling too. But first and foremost, I want you to remember, everything that's been done to you has been done to Belle too."

Gold's eyes flash. "That's the worst of it. She's dragged down in the gutter with me and I'm powerless—"

"Bull." He gives Gold a shove toward the basement. "Get your fishing stuff. We start here. Now."

* * *

><p>Blue's fist is raised in mid-pound when Gold sweeps his front door open. He's shaved and dressed in a dress shirt and tie, and as he stands aside to allow her in, she gapes at him. "Are you going to court?" He shakes his head. "To the shop?" He shakes his head even more forcefully. "Where are you going, then?"<p>

"To the clinic with you." He picks up a box of empty vials from the entryway table.

She opens her mouth to argue. From her attire it's clear she intended to work in the garden today, and from her posture it's clear she intended to have to drag him out again. But she nods, taking her victory where's she's found it. Reaching for her phone, she says, "I'll call Doc about arranging a Lunch and Learn, if you're up for a teaching session."

"The end-of-life pain alleviation talk," he suggests, looking guilty.

She makes the call. "Done," she announces.

"Fine." He holds the door open with his hip so that she can pass through. "The convent first, to fill these," he indicates the box balanced on one arm as he collects his keys and cane in the other hand.

"Very well," she agrees, still a bit stunned.

* * *

><p>Bell's Corners won't quit. They keep coming. Sometimes he lets them in, sometimes not. Sometimes they're asking his advice–their requests aren't fake. People here have come to depend on him; they think he's wise and, even better, cunning. Sometimes they bring beer and barbeque or sodas and pizza, as if they were friends dropping in for a chat. Sometimes they bring dishes of tonight's "too much" ("We baked too much lasagna tonight. Would you care for some?") or today's "new recipe trial" ("I tried out this recipe in <em>The<em> _Ladies_' _Home_ _Journal_. It's so good I just had to share it!") or the morning's catch ("They sure were bitin', Rumple. Caught more than we can eat. Take a few off our hands?").

They never mention the eviction. He assumes they don't know. He and Belle—well, more so he than Belle—have chosen not to tell anyone, not even Bae and Emma.

They keep inviting him and Belle: meetings, holiday parties, backyard barbecues. Sometimes Belle forces him to go; she claims he owes it to this town he's helped to build, to now share in its celebrations. Sometimes he neglects to inform her of the invitations.

Sometimes they bring him little pieces of legal work: leases, deeds, wills. They pay in cash, apparently assuming the IRS will take his earnings away otherwise. It's not so; everything he had before the levy went into effect is now inaccessible, but whatever he and Belle make after the levy, they can keep. The trouble is, they make just a fraction of what they were making at the time they had this house built.

The shop and Treadle have been shut down, but Fran's Fresh and Fast is in the clear. Josiah hates it just as bad as Gold does, being financially dependent on his wife. Jo won't talk about it, though, any more than Gold will. Sometimes Jo just shows up, tackle box in hand, on Gold's porch at dawn, and they go fishing. Not talking, just fishing. Gold is too dispirited to leave the house, but he goes anyway. If it makes Jo feel better, it's the least he can do, Gold figures; it's Gold that Spencer's after; Jo and Bae just got caught in the crossfire.

* * *

><p>"The second graphology report is in."<p>

"And?"

"We can't use it."

Gold sighs. "All right."

"In court I'll pick at the fact that the handwriting is _too_ good, _too _close a match, but the less time we allow Anguem to spend on the subject, the better."

"Kevin. . . .Whatever you think we should do next, I'm in," Gold vows. "Just—help me, please."

The lawyer's voice is warm. "It's time for Plan B. Your daughter-in-law's. Expect me in Bell's Corners by noon on Friday. Hey, Rumple, do you know what a caiman is? _Caiman_ spelled c-a-i-m-a-n. My ancestors were bad spellers."

"No."

"It's a cousin of the crocodile. Just, as Emma would say, an interesting factoid. See you Friday."


	71. Chapter 71

Chapter 71

**A/N. Here comes the "acting locally" part; "thinking globally" comes in the next chapter or two.**

* * *

><p>Khan: <em>"You know the lesson of the silkworm?"<em>

Caine: _"The silkworm dies, the moth lives. Yet they are not two separate beings but one and the same."_

Khan: "_It is the same with man. His false beliefs must die so that he may know the joy of The Way. What you felt in the silence was real. Something in you is dying: it is called ignorance."_

* * *

><p>They have two weeks left in this house. He's begun to pack the personal effects they will be permitted to take.<p>

He has awakened before Belle this morning. He feels hungry, so he prepares a breakfast and is waiting at the foot of the stairs when she comes down, teased by the aroma of coffee and bacon. He sits at the table and eats with her. They talk quietly about Emma's latest investigative report: Ms. BMW has caught Mr. Scrooge plying a younger lady with liquor at the Rabbit Hole. Ms. BMW had just happened to drop in for a friendly game of darts with Mr. Donald Juan. Emma thinks it's time she invited Ms. BMW to a girls' night out.

When Belle has gone for the day, Gold combs his hair, carefully counts out the cash set aside for groceries, and walks to the market. He can't carry much, since he has only one free arm for carrying, but then their money won't buy a second bagful, anyway. He spends a long time comparing products and calculating price-per-ounce; seeking out bargains makes him feel a little more like himself. He waits until the last to walk down That aisle, the one every married man occasionally must tread, but it's a necessity and he's glad to do this for Belle, so he holds his head high as he plucks the blue box from the shelf and drops it into the plastic basket on his arm.

As he's waiting in line at the register, he stares down at that blue box, and suddenly he feels like a complete bastard for lying on a couch feeling sorry for himself while Belle is struggling to keep hot dogs on the table and keep his spirits up. . . and keep the disappointment of her broken dream of motherhood from dragging her down to the muck wherein he now resides.

He hates that blue box every bit as much as she does.

After he's shelved it and the other groceries at home, he walks over to the library. He has something to say that can't wait. He finds her in the Juvenile Easys (he learned all the lingo for her professional world, just as she learned his), kneeling, pulling some picture books from the bottom shelf as a pre-schooler and his mom stand by. "This one has been very popular." Bless her, she reads the title aloud with a straight face: "_Walter the Farting Dog_: _Banned from the Beach._"

The child and the librarian compare thoughts about Walter's predicament, then she sends the boy and his mom off to the circulation desk with the complete Walter series. As she rises to her feet, she sways a little and reaches out to grab a shelf for balance, but Gold offers her his arm instead. "Oh! Rumple, what are you doing here?"

"Are you dizzy? Any pain?" He examines her coloring.

"Just stood up too fast."

He leads her into her office and fetches her a cup of water. "Really, I'm fine." She swats him away, but her small smile tells him she's pleased he's fussing over her; it's been a long time. "What brings you—oh. More bad news from the bank? From Kamen?"

He shakes his head. "I came to apologize. I've been a bastard lately."

"Yes."

"Insensitive, selfish."

"Yes."

"Wallowing around in my depression, neglecting my responsibilities, neglecting you."

"Yes."

"Stop me at any time, dear."

"Oh, Rumple." She gives his ear a playful tug; it's one of their things, a couple thing. "You know I forgive you. I understand what you're going through."

"And I have the right to be miserable," he says, repeating Archie's assessment. "But so do you, and I ignored that, and I'm sorry."

"You sound better. Did something happen today?"

He can't bring himself to say the word aloud that would inform her what he bought for her today; he can, after years of marriage, walk through the grocery store with the box in his basket, but he's not yet progressed to where he can say aloud what's in the box. "I just started thinking about Adelena."

She bows her head. He crouches beside her chair, brushing back her hair. "I'm so sorry, Belle, that I—that you've had so much disappointment lately. So much loss."

She clutches his hand. Her cheeks are dry, but her mouth forms a flat line. "So am I. I'm sorry for you, too. "

"I'll try harder. I promise, sweetheart. I won't let Spencer break me."

She looks closely at him. "Tonight, come back to our bedroom. I need you to. I think you need it too."

He presses his forehead against hers.

* * *

><p>In all their visits, not Blue or Jo or Bae or Henry or the entire Development Committee has made Gold feel ashamed of his deteriorated appearance, but at last one man does: the one man in the world who knows whether it's boxers or briefs for Gold, the one man who can truly appreciate the perfect Windsor knot that Gold used to painstakingly tie each morning. That man appears on Gold's doorstep one morning to throw him a lifesaver, and in a way that's a dignity saver.<p>

"Mr. Gold, sorry to disturb, but I was hoping we could chat."

This is Sam Browning on his doorstep, and Gold's so surprised to see him that he forgets that he's dressed in his painting jeans and a t-shirt with a rip in the armpit. "Sam! Yeah, come in."

He invites Sam to the living room.

"This is difficult," Sam confesses. "I need to ask your help."

"My. . . ."

"I seem to have gotten in over my head. Ever since I relocated my shop here, business has been good. Well, I guess I got overly ambitious, because when the VP for Apple's R & D Department called and asked if I'd make formal wear for the men on his staff for an awards banquet, I said yes. I thought it would be the staff he'd introduced me to at a party: four guys, including himself. But it turns out, he meant his entire staff: twenty."

"Twenty."

"Ten of them are women, so they'll have their dresses made in Augusta, but that leaves ten tuxes in two months."

"Not doable."

"Definitely not doable, without help. Mr. Gold, you know tuxes as well as I do, and you were a tailor in the old days–"

"Spinner. Though I did do some weaving and sewing when I had the means."

"You've watched me dozens of times put a suit together. You know the process. You can learn the tools. The most important thing, the thing that can't be taught, is taste, and yours would make Giorgio proud."

"Thank you."

"Mr. Gold, will you come to work for me?" Sam blurts. "I'll pay you a salary, plus a commission for any new business you bring in."

Gold lays a hand across his mouth to hide a flood of emotion threatening to burst forward. He feels then how patchy his stubble is, not at all Brad Pitt quality, and his t-shirt, once a Calvin Klein, now looks like a ragbag reject. Browning has the grace to ignore all that. He's waiting for an answer; Gold must have the courtesy to respond.

"Yes, Sam, I'd enjoy that very much. Thank you."

Browning relaxes. "I hate to rush you, but could you start this afternoon? We'll be going out to the camp to take measurements."

"I'll be there as soon as I dress."

"That two-button black pinstripe I made for you in 2011? It was one of my best."

Gold lights up, anxious to get to his closet. "And the black shirt with the silver periwinkle-patterned tie."

Sam rises. "Perfect. Mr. Gold, this could be the start of a beautiful partnership."

* * *

><p>After work—yes! After <em>work!<em>—he walks over to the motel to pick up Belle. She's sweaty, exhausted, filthy, but when she sees him in his silk and wool with a garment bag slung over his shoulder, she welcomes him, and when he kisses her, she wakes up. "Guess where I just came from?" he prods.

"A _GQ _photo shoot with George Clooney?"

He crows, "Work. I just came from work. I have a job!" He removes her car keys from her hand. "And you, milady, have a dinner date with a tailor."

"But I'm—" she waves her hand over her uniform.

"Beautiful," he finishes. "You're beautiful." He turns her around and starts her walking back toward the motel lobby. "Your boss gave permission for you to use his shower, and I brought a change of clothes."

"Oh? Which dress?"

"The Stella McCartney." It's the black halter dress she wore on the night they dined at Le Bernardin. "And your high heels." Inside the lobby, he seats himself and makes a shooing motion. "Go on now and shower."

"The black Louboutins?" she asks hopefully, taking the garment bag. "And did you bring underwear?"

He just smirks. "You'll just have to wait and see. We may be going down the tubes," he says, "but we're going in style."

* * *

><p>Josiah, in a tie Gold recognizes from their Storybrooke days, greets them at the entrance to Fran's Fresh and Fast. He gives a little bow. "Good evening, M'sieur, Madame. I believe you have reservations, do you not?" His French accent was acquired from Pepe Le Pew cartoons, but Gold finds it charming as Jo leads them to the back of the bistro, which seems awfully crowded. . . awfully, awfully crowded. . . .<p>

"What's going on?" Belle whispers to Jo, but he just winks and withdraws a chair for her. "If madame will be seated, I'll pour the wine." He picks up a bottle from the table and displays it for Gold. "We have a delightful 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon from Garguilio Vineyards."

Gold starts to protest—he's only put in one day of work; he can't afford a $90 bottle. "I was thinking we'd start with iced tea. . . ."

"Pardon, m'sieur, but the chef insists. Any other beverage would be a disservice to the cheeseburgers she's prepared for this evening." As Jo tucks in Belle's chair, he whispers to Gold, "On the house, Mr. G. We're celebrating tonight."

He uncorks the wine and fills four glasses, and as he does so, Fran, in her spotless white apron and a huge grin, appears at tableside. "Evening, Belle, Rumple." Jo hands a glass to each of the Golds, then one to his wife, and takes the last for himself as the other diners leave their tables, which are suspiciously devoid of any signs of dining, except for glasses of wine.

Gold jumps to his feet again as the other diners approach, some thirty men and women from Storybrooke as well as Bell's Corners; he recognizes them all: people who canvassed neighborhoods for petition signatures on his behalf; medical staff and volunteers from Storybrooke General and the BC Clinic; city council members and former Treadle staff and current library staff and Creativity Camp staff, and parents he'd fought custody battles for, and the Bells and Granny Lucas and the Hoppers and the Swan-Golds and Henry, and Browning, and Goldie Locksley. . .and by gods, the Charmings.

Snow, dressed as Mary Margaret so as not to raise questions among the Bell's Corners residents, comes forward with a long white envelope in her hands. Belle rises, as stunned as her husband, and it's she that the queen comes to with a tight hug and a soft smile. "Belle, so good to see you." She offers her hand to Gold, who shakes it. "Rumple." Charming shakes Gold's hand too. Looking from one to the other, Snow says, "We want you to know, all of us—" she indicates the entire room—"we don't agree with the. . . the things that have been done. We believe—we know—the charges are false and the trial will prove that. But we can't just sit by and wait; we had to do something, before you lose your home. It's not right to punish an innocent man"—she looks Gold in the eye—"and his family." Her voice drops so only the Golds can hear her. "And I'm sorry." She raises her voice again. "When someone's being railroaded, the community needs to step in." She draws in a deep breath and presents Gold with the envelope. When he hesitates, she urges, "Please, open it."

Gold opens the envelope. There are six coupons torn from a loan payment book; they're stamped PAID. It takes him a moment to understand, then he shows them to Belle.

"Does this mean—how?" she sputters.

"But how did this happen?" Gold echoes his wife's question.

Glances are exchanged all around, and Snow answers, "The community stepped in."

"You. . .passed a hat for us?" Belle asks. Gold can't say anything; his voice won't work.

"This gets you three months ahead in your payments," Charming explains. "By then, the trial will be over and the freeze will be lifted."

His cheeks are wet, but Gold doesn't rub his face; he allows his friends to see what he's feeling. Clearing his throat, he raises his wine glass in a salute. "Thank you, everyone."

Glasses are raised in a return salute, wine (or in Henry's case, Coke) is sipped, as the restaurant falls for a moment into an emotion-laden silence. Then Whale the smart ass pipes up, "So we expect you back at the hospital on Wednesday." Ruby mutters a correction to Whale, and the doctor says, "Oh, okay, the first Wednesday after the trial's over."

Fran breaks the awkwardness by clapping her hands. "Okay, now if some of you will give me a hand in the kitchen, we've got burgers and fries to bring out. Let's eat!"

He tries—he should be hungry, after putting in a full day of _work!_—but when the heart is full to bursting, the body ignores the call of the belly. Chairs are dragged up to his table, but there are too many who consider it their right to sit at his table, too many who consider themselves family, and another table, and another must join the first, and soon it's impossible for anyone to step around the chairs. Never mind; there are no servers tonight; Fran and Jo sit down with the rest of the family—everyone is a Gold tonight—and the dishes are passed up and down the line, fingers are used when the number of serving implements proves insufficient, and calls of "please pass the" rise above the laughter, the chatter. At the head of the table, both embarrassed to be on show like this, Belle and Rumple are squeezed together. At the farthest end sit Snow and Charming.

A jolt passes through Gold's body as he suddenly remembers having had a dream very much like this one, though the setting was different, and the food, and there was something about going out to buy whipped cream. . . and there were nowhere near as many people seated at his dream table as there are here, in real life, flesh-and-blood friends.

As Belle rests her hand on his knee—she's cut her burger, as she always does, into quarters so she can manage it neatly with one hand—Gold lets his gaze travel over each and every friend here. He wants so much to say something eloquent, something memorable, to express his gratitude, his amazement, his pride, but when Henry leans forward—dropping his elbow into his ketchup—to ask, "Is this cool or what, Grandpa" all he think to say is "Awesome."

When the last French fry has been popped into a mouth, by common silent consent the diners pass their plates to the end of the table, and the queen and the prince collect them with their grandson's help, and take them into the kitchen. Likewise, the condiments and the silverware and the napkins are collected and carried away, and crumbs are brushed from the table, and wine glasses are refilled.

Now is the time. He can't let the evening end without saying what needs to be said. When he was a showman, he was never short on words, but then, he was also always in control of those moments; he'd scripted them, well before making his appearance. He's not in control of this moment: he lacks the power—or, rather, the power he has now is only that his friends are willingly granting him—_trustingly_ so. Maybe it doesn't matter how eloquent and memorable his words are, anyway; maybe what matters is how open their hearts are to his words.

And how open his heart is to their help. Strange thing about power, he's just discovered: the less you pry away from others, the more they're willing to give you; and the less you have to wield, the greater its effect.

Gold stands, and gradually the noise dies down as heads turn in his direction. He rests his palms on the tabletop, letting his arms support his weak leg. "Everyone, I just wanted to say, for Belle and me, what you've done for us—we'll never stop being grateful and we'll never stop being amazed by it." He dips his head. "Thanks." He sits back down.

Henry answers for the lot: "You're welcome, Grandpa."

Henry's mom drapes an arm about his shoulders and gives him an affectionate squeeze, then her eyes connect with Gold's.

Suddenly his ears go momentarily deaf and there's a flash before his eyes and a flush rushes through his entire body. It mirrors exactly a reaction he's experienced before, recently, and he tries to hang onto the physical feelings so that he can identify them by matching them to the right memory.

Gold feels the flush again, stronger this time, and he seeks the direction this power is coming from: the moment he finds it, he identifies it. The source is Emma, who's looking at him closely but kindly; the power he's picking up from her is a magic so pure that he feels compelled to fall to his knees before it. He's touched this magic once before, very, very briefly, when she kissed his cheek after he rescued her from the Dreamshade. She has no idea how powerful that magic is, so much more powerful than all the magic ever possessed by all the Dark Ones who ever existed, because that magic was tainted with rage, greed, lust, jealousy, fear, shame—man's evils—but her magic bypasses man's weaknesses; it springs directly from a source as far above man as the exosphere is above the troposphere. And yet, Emma herself is too deeply flawed, too human, to do more than play around its edges. She could be taught, if she would allow it. . .just as Gold has been taught, has been broken down and humbled, has needed and has been given what he needed, and not just material things.

Bae says something to his wife, and Emma breaks eye contact with Gold, yet the flush of magic doesn't dissipate. He suspects then that this magic, this untainted magic, didn't issue from her after all.

Perhaps it's his.

From the corner of his eye, he spots Kevin Kamen, who's grinning at him, not like a crocodile at all, but rather like the Cheshire cat. Puzzled, Gold turns to face him, and Kamen raises his wine glass in a silent salute.


	72. Chapter 72

Chapter 72

Po: "_You spoke of chance, Grasshopper, as if such a thing were certain to exist. In the matter you speak of, destiny, there is no such thing as chance, for whichever way you choose, right or left, it must lead to an end, and that end is our destiny."_

* * *

><p>Belle's head is tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. Her thick hair tickles his bare chest, but he resists the urge to scratch; he doesn't want to wake her.<p>

He doesn't understand what happened this evening. Or rather, he doesn't understand why it happened, why these people bailed him out. Why they'd give a second thought to the Dark One.

Belle has a simple answer for him: "Because they love you."

He starts to argue, leaning on his old "no one could love me" line, but after all this community has done for him, there must be some smattering of affection in it. With a crooked smile, he decides to let Belle be right.

He stares at the ceiling for a long time. Just a few years ago, if an act of kindness had been given him, he would have assumed it a Trojan horse. He tries to feel that old suspicion now, reminds himself the townsfolk are warm, flesh-and-blood beings with hearts and souls, and he isn't. There's a reason why, when the Dark curse came upon him, his skin grew scales and his eyes became serpentine: because he's a cold-blooded, rock-dwelling thing. He's the Dark One; there's only one of him; he's not only beyond the pale, he's beyond understanding, and therefore beyond loving.

Was. _Was beyond_, he corrects himself. What he's dealt with recently is all too human. The false accusations, the economic woes and the infertility: people can understand them, and through them, relate to him. When he had power, he was invulnerable and out of reach, but powerless, brought to his knees, he's been rendered willing to take the hand that would lift him up.

As he has so many times before, he reaches into himself to touch the reserve of magic. He has to search for it; it's not in the same place and it doesn't feel the same as the Dark One's power. He searches and searches, but fails to find it until he stops searching. Then it rises in him, making him shudder with its strength and gentility. He touches it with the briefest of touches, then he retreats. For tonight, it's enough to know the magic is there, ready for him when he's ready for it.

Emma isn't the only one who needs lessons.

* * *

><p>He's sitting on the back porch, seemingly looking out onto his sandboxyard, but actually looking into himself. It's still there, the pool of magic, cool and crisp, a snow-fed mountain stream of magic, not at all like the cesspool of dark magic that always left a scent of burnt flesh in his nostrils and the taste of sulfur on his tongue after he'd cast a spell.

When Belle joins him, curling up next to him on the wooden swing, she's already dressed in her uniform, except her feet are bare. Unlike previous mornings, she's in no hurry; she pushes the swing with one foot and sips from her mug. After a long silence, she asks, with a mischievous smile, "What time do you need to leave for work?"

"Eight forty-five," he says.

They swing a little more and she shares her coffee with him. Then, because there are no secrets between them, he begins, "Belle, something happened last night. I'm not sure why, but. . . " He can't figure out how to explain, so he simply shows her. He lays his palm flat and for the first time testing his discovery, he conjures their chipped cup.

She touches the jagged edge of the cup. "How did magic escape Storybrooke?" The tone of her voice is a mix of amazement, annoyance and excitement, as if a long-lost relative has shown up on their doorstep at a most inconvenient time.

"I don't know." He summons another small burst of it, making the chipped cup glow.

"It's different." She pokes a curious finger at the cloud of magic. "It's white. Your magic is gold. And it feels like. . . like raindrops. Your magic feels like nettles."

He chuckles and sends the cup back to its proper place in the china cabinet. "You should write poems, my love. You've very descriptive."

"Where did this magic come from? Why do you have it? Why now? Did you have it before and just couldn't make it work? Do you still have your old magic? Does it make you feel 'red,' like your old magic did?"

"I don't know. I suppose I'll investigate it, eventually."

"Eventually? What do you mean, 'eventually'?"

"I don't feel the need to test it right now."

"Huh." Her mouth falls open. "Definitely not the old magic. What are you going to do?"

He surprises her, and himself, even further by reaching for his cane and rising. "I'm going to cook us breakfast, then I'm going to work."

"Rumple?"

He kisses the top of her head. "'Become the calm and restful breeze that tames the violent sea.' Waffles or pancakes?"

She follows him into the kitchen, still testing him. "But Rumple. . . magic. It's here. Aren't you going to take advantage of it?"

"Like. . .roll back time to the time before we heard of Ms. Anguem? Or turn Spencer into a cockroach and step on him? Or cast a forgetting spell on the IRS?" He's rooting around in the refrigerator. "Do we have any eggs?"

"Conjure them," she suggests.

"No, we'll settle for oatmeal instead."

"But you can, can't you? Conjure eggs, I mean."

"I think so."

"But now that you _can_, don't you want to use your power?"

He emerges from the fridge with a bottle of milk. "It's like you said: this magic feels different. The Dark One's power demanded to be used. It would hound me until I did. I could feel it jump and salivate in my veins. But this new magic just lies there dozing."

"Like a kitten on a hearth."

"Yeah."

Belle purses her lips. "Is it weaker than the Dark magic?"

"It doesn't feel weaker, just. . . at peace with itself. The Dark magic, when I gave in to it, destroyed indiscriminately. It would have destroyed itself if it had nothing else to attack." He puts a pan of water on the stove to boil.

"Do you want me to use this magic to fix our problems?" He folds his arms. "It's your decision too. I could put us back the way we were before." He reaches out, takes her hands in his and runs his thumbs over her roughened skin. "Life hasn't been fair to us lately; you've gotten the brunt of it. I can restore the life we had before. I'd be glad to do that for you, sweetheart."

"But not for yourself," she puzzles.

"I was happy then," he admits. "I had important work to do. I had you and Bae, Henry and Emma, all our friends. If you'd have asked me this twenty-four hours ago, I'd have said I'd return to that life in a heartbeat. And to have my power too, on top of it, would've been perfection to me."

"But?"

He shrugs. "Emma promised us a miracle. Things are happening, she said, just have faith. Well, some of those things happened yesterday; I want to see the rest of them. I already know what magic can do; now I want to see what miracles can do."

She gapes at him. "Instead of using magic to make things happen, you're going to trust them to other people."

"Yeah. I think there might be fewer mistakes that way." He reddens. "I might have had more power than anyone else, but I didn't always have the best judgment. But if you think it would be better if I used magic–"

"No," she interrupts. "I want to see the miracles too."

* * *

><p>The steady hum of the sewing machine beneath his hands is as pleasing as the roll of a wooden wheel, so when he and Browning stand, stretch and lock up the shop for the night, he feels refreshed by his labors.<p>

"A good day's work," Sam judges. "We'll make the deadline. See you in the morning, Rumple." It's the first time Browning has referred to Gold by his first name, despite Gold's earlier requests to do so: it's just not fitting, Gold has said, for an employee to be on a first-name basis with his boss if the reverse is not also true.

"A very good day's work," Gold agrees, rubbing his thumb against his fingers to relish the memory of the cloth. "Thank you, Sam, for everything."

"It was the right fit," Sam remarks. "Good night, Rumple."

* * *

><p>Belle cuts back on her hours at the motel. She won't quit until the levy is lifted, she decides, but she can afford to follow a fifty-hour work week now. On her first Saturday off in six months, she sleeps past nine o'clock, and after a shower she goes right back to bed, propped up with pillows so she can read. Her husband serves her breakfast on a tray, with a little bunch of wildflowers in a rosebud vase. He can't yet afford to buy her roses again, but she pronounces the wildflowers superior, because they smell of the outdoors instead of her father's greenhouse. "They smell like freedom," she declares. He has a pretty good idea what she means.<p>

* * *

><p>Gold and Sam survey the six tuxes they've completed, almost alive on their wooden hangers, each as individual as the man who will wear it. The tailors look at each other and smile in satisfaction. They're not worried about making their deadline; they'll do it. They're not worried about satisfying they're customers; they'll do it. They're not worried about whether there will be future projects; there will be. Their talent is indisputable; their work ethic, obvious.<p>

"I wonder, Rumple," Sam speculates, "if, after we've completed this order, you would consider staying on. Knowing how busy you are with your other commitments, I would settle for part-time, but if you'd consider joining me full-time, we could negotiate a partnership."

Gold pretends to be thinking it over as he pretends to examine his cane, but he's struggling to keep his face from twitching. He hasn't gone to trial yet, so for all the public knows, he may be an embezzler and a tax cheater. How can Browning even consider offering him a partnership? He manages to pull himself together. "I will consider it, with thanks, Sam."

* * *

><p>"We might have done something that we might need legal representation for," former Deputy Swan-Gold picks off the sprinkles from a donut and makes a pile of them on her plate. She doesn't like sprinkles, but Granny was out of bagels and bear claws and Emma <em>had<em> to bring pastry to the Golds': it's tradition.

Gold's intense gaze passes from her to her husband, then back again. Neither of his breakfast guests is actually worried, so he relaxes, leaning back in his kitchen chair: this is just their way of admitting to their elder that they've been naughty. "Okay, what did you do?"

"We might have. . . mmmm, borrowed the key for one of your rental properties, from Josiah," Bae begins. "And, uhm, used it to gain access while the tenant was out."

"I take it you didn't have Sheriff Grayson with you, let alone a warrant." Gold scowls.

"We might not have," Bae says. "We were in a hurry, considering the trial starts next week."

"We really didn't have a strong enough reason to ask for a warrant," Emma says. "I mean, it was strong enough for us, but a judge wouldn't have seen it our way."

"Besides, isn't it a gray area, sort of?" Bae ponders. "You own the property. You can enter it if you want to. Right? And Emma and I were kind of like acting as your agents–" His voice trails off as Gold shakes his head.

"No and no. Which place did you let yourselves into and why?"

"Might have been Camelot Apartments, number 9," Bae answers.

Gold purses his lips. "Sidney Glass' apartment. Of course. You weren't there to unclog a sink, were you?"

Emma tilts her head sideways. "If we were, would we be asking about legal representation?"

"What did you find?"

Emma nods at Bae, who slowly reaches a hand into his jacket. Gold exclaims, "You_ took_ it? You let yourselves into an apartment and stole something?"

Bae huffs, "Recovered, Pop. Recovered stolen property."

"An unauthorized recovery, maybe," Emma admits. "I suppose we could give it back."

Bae nods. "I think we should. Today. We'll drive back to Storybrooke and give it back to Sidney. That's the right thing to do." He sets the object onto the kitchen table. "Or would the right thing be to return it to its rightful owner?" He shoves the object toward Gold, who gapes at it.

"My Montblanc! Where–Glass had this?" He picks up the pen to confirm his first impression. "Yeah, this is mine; this is Belle's inscription on the clip." He runs his finger over the engraved _forever_. "You should've left it where it was. Now we can't prove he took it." He pushes the pen back toward Bae.

"Yeah, about that," Emma ponders. "That was never our intention. Even if we had managed to get a warrant to search Sid's apartment, what would it prove? That Sid stole a pen. Even if it is a $400 pen."

"We think we have a better use for it." Bae's practically snickering as he pockets the pen. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then stands. "Come on, Em, it's after nine." Emma stuffs a last bite of donut into her mouth.

"But it's Sunday," Gold protests. "You don't have to go to work."

"Oh yeah we do." Bae really is snickering now. "Watch _GMS_ tomorrow."

Gold neglects to remind them he and Belle no longer subscribe to cable TV or an Internet service.

* * *

><p>Tomorrow the trial begins. Tomorrow, at six a.m., Gold, accompanied by his lawyer and his family, will drive to Portland, where <em>USA<em> _v_. _Gold_ will be heard in Room 2 of the Gignoux Courthouse. It's the same room in which the preliminary hearing took place six months ago. "Is that a good sign or a bad one?" Gold asks bitterly. "Considering the hearing went against us. . . ."

Kamen shrugs. "You know, Rumple, the thing about portents and omens and such is that they're like a garage sale puzzle: so many pieces missing that they aren't worth the quarter you paid for them."

Today, though no one can afford to, the Golds and the Swan-Golds all take a day of unpaid leave to gather around the former's dining table to help develop the plan of attack: since they can't make a forgery argument, they'll pluck at the reliability of every witness for the prosecution, casting subtle aspersions by exposing reasons for revenge against Rumple. There are reasons aplenty, though most can't be introduced in court without exposing Storybrooke's true nature. This, as much as the possibility of going to prison, worries Gold: someone's bound to slip and say something about magic, and then taxes and accounts won't matter any more: Storybrooke will become a locked-down government preserve, its citizens objects of examination. Outsiders will find a way to sneak in, to gawp at the freaks, to beg for magical favors, to slaughter witches.

Over breakfast, Gold discusses this possibility in depth with his family. He's vowed, to their horror but eventual agreement, that if any signs of exposure start to emerge, Gold will stop the trial with a guilty plea. "You don't owe Storybrooke anything," Bae growls. "You don't have to do this, Pop."

"It wouldn't be for Storybrooke. It would be for the Doves, the nuns, the Hoppers, the–"

"I get it," Bae acquiesces. "Guess I'd do the same."

"Don't worry, son. You know me and my deals: I'll wrangle a sweet plea bargain."

"Let's make damn sure we don't have to make any deals," Belle insists. "We're going to win this fight."

"Keep your spirits up," Emma urges. Such optimism is unlike her, but she persists: "I know it doesn't look like it now, but things are happening. Expect a miracle."

Kamen arrives at nine o'clock with his laptop in his grip and a tune he's whistling between his teeth: when Belle asks him to identify it, it's Bae who answers, "'We Are the Champions.' Good thing it's not 'Bohemian Rhapsody.'"

"Why are you so cheerful, Kevin?" Belle asks. "Do you have good news?"

"Better," he replies. "Faith." He raise an eyebrow at Emma. "I saw the morning talk show from Storybrooke. Your Plan B, I take it? You have my congratulations."

"Why? Did Anguem drop the case?" Emma frowns.

"Not yet, but miracles aren't as much fun if they don't come at the twelfth hour."

Well wishers drop in throughout the day, staying only long enough to offer food ("We knew you wouldn't have time to cook") and positive thoughts (in Blue's case, prayers). At four o'clock Henry skips baseball practice and trots in with pizzas he's bought with his hardware store pay. "I know you don't think much of it, Grandpa, but _Good Morning, Storybrooke _ is on our side."

"Too bad Goldie Locksley doesn't work for the IRS," Bae quips.


	73. Chapter 73

Chapter 73

Caine: "_You tell a man he is something less than a man and say it often enough, and even he will believe it. The price he pays is easy to see. The price you pay is hidden but it is just as deep."_

* * *

><p>The Swan-Golds arrive at the Golds' house at 5:45 with a box of donuts and Henry in tow.<p>

Gold draws Bae aside as Henry distributes the donuts and Belle distributes bottles of orange juice. "Doesn't Henry have school today?"

"We thought this was more important." But when his father's expression remains doubtful, Bae reassures him. "I see what you're getting at, Pop, but Henry's growing up. We don't think we should shelter him from this. In fact, we think it would be more damaging if we did. He wants to be there to support you, and we're proud of him for that."

Gold reconsiders. "So am I." He pats Bae's shoulder as he passes behind him to carry his suitcase to the Cadillac. It bumps against his left leg as he walks, listing a little to avoid putting weight on his right leg.

"Let me help, Pop." Bae picks up Belle's suitcase. They have no idea how long the trial will run, so the Golds have packed enough for a week. Bae and Henry will return to Bell's Corners tomorrow to resume their jobs, but Emma will remain "for the duration," she announces—and then she tosses a single backpack into the Cadillac's trunk. "What?" she demands when the Golds seem puzzled by it.

"One outfit?" Belle asks.

"That's all I'll need," Emma insists. "This trial will be done today."

"Well," Belle decides, "after we win today, we'll take a celebratory side trip to New York."

"There you go," Emma approves. "Expect a miracle."

A Yukon pulls up behind the Cadillac and the driver's side window rolls down, Josiah leaning out. "Mornin'."

"Good morning, Jo, Fran," Belle greets, as Emma offers the donut box to the Doves and their passenger, Judge Fairbanks.

"Morning," Gold unfolds a road map to show Josiah. "I figure we'll take High—" He's interrupted by a short toot of a car horn as a Toyota draws up behind the Yukon and through the open windows, three voices call out greetings. Belle rushes over to greet the new arrivals as Gold asks Bae, "Did you know the nuns were coming?"

Bae just grins. "Nope, but it doesn't surprise me."

Josiah and Blue cluster around Gold to study the road map while everyone else chatters over donuts and orange juice. Emma only brought a baker's dozen, but somehow the pastries seem to be enough to feed four households.

Then a fourth vehicle, a red Camero, pulls up, Ruby at the wheel and Archie riding shotgun. They've barely acquired their donuts and driving directions when a Yamaha wheels up and Sam Browning lifts the visor of his helmet to say hello.

"What is this, a Shriners parade?" Bae chuckles.

Belle reaches for her husband's hand and the two of them stand open-mouthed as Browning cautions, "Don't let this rattle you, but—yeah, you're going to have a few others joining the parade en route. The Bells chartered a bus—well, they had the entire city council to haul. They're waiting at the town line."

As he speaks, a worn-out Ford pickup parks in the middle of the street because there's no more room on the curb or in the Golds' driveway. "Gramps! Gram!" Henry shouts, running to the pickup.

"Oh my gods," Belle murmurs to Gold, "it's Snow and Charming."

Gold rubs his forehead and murmurs back, "Please, gods, nobody say anything about fairy tales when we get into Portland."

Belle gives his hand a squeeze, informing him through touch that she supports, though dreads as much as he does, his intention to interrupt any burgeoning revelation that would expose Storybrooke for what it really is. They've talked about this intention extensively, even more so now that Gold has some sort of magic outside of Storybrooke; Belle proposed that he simply use that magic to put an abrupt end to any unacceptable revelations. Gold had nodded-he'd considered the idea too-but admitted, "I'm not sure I could."

"Because you haven't tested the magic yet?"

"No, I think the magic's powerful enough to make people stop speaking or forget what they've heard. Strong enough, but I don't think it's _mean_ enough. I don't think it would allow me to control people."

Irked, Belle snaps, "Well, what good is it, then?" Then she clamps her lips together. "Sorry."

Jo checks his wristwatch. "Time to hit the road, folks, if we're going to be in Portland by seven."

Bae opens the rear doors of the Caddy and with a wave of his hand, urges his father and stepmother in. He's offered to do the driving; Gold and Belle have enough to worry about. Word is passed down the line, like a trail boss' order, and the vehicles file neatly behind the Caddy. Adjusting the rear view mirror, Bae admires the parade. "Something else, isn't it, Pop? They've closed the entire town down for the day. Those who aren't going will be watching the proceedings on _GMS_."

Ever practical, Emma counts the cars and wonders, "When we get to the courthouse, where are they all going to park?"

* * *

><p>Kamen, dressed in a dark Hugo Boss, trots down from the courthouse steps as the entourage pulls into the parking lot across the street. "Well! Looks like you brought half of Bell County with you," he says as he shakes Gold's hand, but he doesn't sound surprised. "They do all know, don't they, court doesn't start until nine? I asked you to get here early for a little last-minute preparation over the best kippers and poached eggs in Maine." He offers his arm to Belle and to Bae, advises, "You might want to pass the word to anyone who's hungry, we're going to the Egg-cellent Cafe, three blocks straight ahead."<p>

Portlanders on their way to work gape at the strange procession that marches up Federal Street. "This has got to be the weirdest start to a trial you've ever seen, huh, Mr. Kamen?" Henry inquires, but Kamen winks at him. "If you like weird, stick around." He's whistling as he holds the cafe door open.

Bae identifies the tune. "The Cars. 'Oh Oh It's Magic.'"

"Right the first time."

Gold gives Kamen a puzzled look, but the lawyer's already talking up the cafe's menu. "Belle, you're going to love this place. Twenty kinds of tea!"

"But what about the bagels?" Emma interrupts.

* * *

><p>The good humor and freeflowing conversation die down as soon as the Gold contingency enters the courthouse and files through the security gates. "This is where we part company," Kamen announces to the crowd in a hushed voice. Handshakes and good wishes are extended to the attorney and his client, who separate from the pack after Gold hugs his family.<p>

"I've got it from here." Fairfax clusters the visitors around her and as she provides an explanation of courtroom procedures, Kamen takes Gold to a side entrance. Before opening the door, Kamen examines Gold critically. "Tie's crooked." He straightens Gold's midnight blue tie. "Must've been all that hugging."

"I'm a lucky man," Gold says, and he means it.

"Glad you recognize that, Rumple." Kamen punches him on the shoulder. "Because you're about to get luckier."

* * *

><p>A trial is an elegant performance, Gold thinks, as solemn and ritualistic as a religious service, but as unpredictable as a soccer match, with as many players to watch. Or maybe American football would be a better comparison, with each side in its turn placing its players carefully, moving them steadily down field, dodging attacks from the opposition. As the <em>GMS <em>cameraman, with anchorman Hart Archer standing by, rolls tape, the bailiff announces the trial and introduces the judge; the judge calls the audience to order; the prosecution lays out her argument. Saeva Anguem is as cool and smooth as her namesake–"cruel snake"–striking out in quick, effective bites. She speaks in an unidentifiable accent, cultured and ancient; Gold imagines Belle will say of her, "She sounds like she swallowed a dictionary." Gold would admire her style–if he weren't the defendant.

Kamen, intentionally by contrast, sounds local in his accent and chooses expressions familiar to Mainers. His hometown boy approach supports the image that all these visitors from Bell's Corners and Storybrooke project: that despite his Armani suit and billion-dollar bank account (which he hasn't had access to in six months), Gold is a family man, a small-businessman, a leader in his community. Gold belongs here. Gold is _needed_ here. A quick glance over his shoulder at his friends reminds Gold there's plenty of truth in this image. He lets the tension drop from his shoulders and settles back into his chair, feeling as lucky as he's claimed to be. Deep in his belly, his magic radiates warmth even as it sleeps. A miracle's coming: his magic believes it, so he does too.

As Anguem calls her first witness, Kamen nudges Gold and whispers, "See that redhead in the fourth row, behind Fran Dove? That redhead is Marcia Bradley."

Scrooge's ex-mistress. Gold casts a quick glance at her and grins.

"And that blonde to her left–"

"Let me guess," Gold whispers back. "The former Mrs. Scrooge."

Kamen pats Gold's sleeve. "Here to testify for us, of course, about how odd it was that a man who makes sixty grand a year could afford to buy three cars at the same time. You can thank me later."

On the other side of the aisle, two rows back from the Prosecution's table, Scrooge sits, drumming his fingers and doing his best to ignore the blonde and the redhead. Gold chuckles a little, until he catches sight of Albert Spencer, seated in the last row. The DA exchanges a glance with Gold: Spencer's is triumphant, Gold's is a warning: there will be consequences for screwing with my family.

Anguem's witness is an IRS accountant who, with an lcd projector, is going through Gold's 2011 1040 form, line by line. Through the long-winded testimony, Judge Keaton remains expressionless: there's a reason he's called "Old Stoneface."

"And so, as you can see, in 2011, Rumple Gold-not yet married to Belle French–had an earned income–"

A commotion at the back of the room causes the accountant to scowl and stop speaking. The front doors burst open–and it's every bit as climactic as a Hollywood movie, because suddenly in the open doorway are two panting sheriffs, Grayson and Wolfe; behind them are Goldie Locksley and a second cameraman; and in the middle of this intrusion, propelled forward by the sheriffs, is a profusely sweating Sidney Glass. As the audience turns around to view the spectacle, the bailiff rushes forward with her hand on her revolver, and Judge Keaton rises from his seat. "Whoever you are and whatever this is, it had better be good, or I'll have you all on contempt charges."

"Your Honor, apologies," Grayson calls across the now-noisy courtroom as Keaton bangs his gavel. "But you've got to hear this." He clamps his hand onto Sid's shoulder and squeezes until the ex-reporter grimaces.

"I have something I have to say," Glass gasps, but as his eyes fall upon Spencer, who's got him locked in a death glare, he swallows repeatedly. "Your Honor, I. . . something to say. . . ." His voice peters out.

Keaton bellows, "Recess!" He points one by one to Glass, Anguem, Gold and Kamen, then the stenographer and the bailiff. "In my chambers! Now!" His robes swishing, he stomps off the bench.

Glass spins around as if he'd like to run, but the sheriffs seize him by the shoulders. "You heard His Honor." As the required individuals follow Keaton from the courtroom, from the corner of his eye, Gold spots Spencer edging his way toward the side exit. A small burst of magic from Gold and Spencer's tripped over a broken shoelace, giving Emma and Bae enough time to get to him. Each grabs one of the DA's arms and with a shoulder nudge, they navigate him to the third row, where they plop down on either side of him.

As the Defense, the Prosecution and the interruptors cram into Keaton's office, Anguem is chewing her lipstick off, the sheriffs are growling as they strong-arm their–prisoner, is it?–the bailiff is snarling, the stenographer is blinking in confusion and Keaton is mumbling to himself. Only Kamen seems unperturbed. "Hello, Sidney." Kamen smiles broadly. "Decided to do the right thing, huh?"

Keaton seats himself and points to the two empty chairs in front of his desk. The sheriffs push Sidney into one; the stenographer takes the other and sets his machine on Keaton's desk. "Now what the hell's going on here?" Keaton growls. He points to Glass. "You. Talk."

"I–I need to make a confession, Your Honor," Glass stammers. His eyes have bugged out and his breath comes in shallow gasps.

"Get him water," Keaton instructs the bailiff. "Before he passes out. Now, you." He points to Glass again. "Who the hell are you?"

"Sidney Glass, sir. I used to be a reporter for the Storybrooke _Mirror_ before Regina fired me and it went out of business. See, the economy there is a total mess, ever since Regina was exiled–"

As subtly as he can, Gold steps on Glass' foot. Glass yelps but stops talking.

"Who the hell is Regina and why was she exiled?"

A brightly smiling face pokes in through the open doorway. "Sir, if I may be allowed, I think I can clear this up." Goldie Locksley steps inside, waving her cameraman in behind her, as Keaton shouts, "Now who the hell are _you_? And what the hell has happened to my courtroom?"

"Do you want 'em out of here, Yer Honor?" the bailiff asks.

"Aw, hell, let them stay. I'll get to them after I finish with Glass here." Keaton runs his hands through his thinning hair.

"Guess they won't be calling him 'Old Stoneface' any more," Kamen whispers to Gold.

"What's this crap about a confession, Glass? What did you do and what does it have to do with this trial?"

Sidney moistens his lips before plunging in. "I stole a pen."

"So?"

Sid points to Gold. "His."

"I repeat, 'So?'"

"Well, see?" Sid produces the pen from his jacket and presents it to Keaton. "'Forever.' It says 'forever.' It was sitting there on top of his desk, this designer pen, with 'forever' emblazoned on it–well, it just wasn't fair, that the Dark One gets his 'forever' and Regina and I don't. So I took it, on impulse. Just stuck it in my pocket and forgot about it until I got home that night."

Keaton minces his words. "Mr. Glass, you are dancing on my last good nerve. What does your stealing a pen–even if it is a designer pen and your crime may constitute a felony–have to do with this trial? If you're wasting this court's time, so help me, I'll toss you in prison for a night or two, and let's see how the murderers and the rapists take to sharing a cell with a pen thief."

Utterly flustered now, Sidney sweats and jabbers, "I had to break into his house to do it. Actually, Albert did the actual breaking in."

Keaton slams his palm against the table. "Mr. Glass! What does this have to do with tax fraud and embezzlement?"

"Well, we were planting forged papers at the time."


	74. Chapter 74

Chapter 74

Caine: _"It is not magic. It is a price that's been paid."_

* * *

><p>"He'd never spoken two words to me before," Sid reports to a silent audience, "but in early 2012, January, I think, I was sitting in Granny's having a bourbon at the counter and Spencer sat down next to me to do the same, and we got to talking about how things were changing in Storybrooke, and how much better things were when Regina ran everything. But bit by bit, control of the town was shifting from Regina to Snow White–"<p>

"Who?" Keaton exclaims.

Gold interrupts, and the other Storybrookers nods in support, "'Snow White' is the town's nickname for a schoolteacher called Mary Margaret Blanchard. Because Ms. Blanchard is, compared to Ms. Mills–or anyone, really-pure as snow." His hand surreptitiously slides behind Sid's chair and grabs him by the nape, giving Glass' neck a warning squeeze. Glass squirms but doesn't debate Gold's explanation.

"Proceed, Mr. Glass," Keaton orders.

"So on the surface, control of Storybrooke was shifting to Sn–to Mary Margaret, but the more we talked, the more we realized Mary and Prince Charming–"

"Let me guess: another nickname. For who?"

Casting a worried glance at Gold, Sid backpedals. "That's Mary's husband, David Nolan. Spencer and I came to the conclusion that the real control of Storybrooke–the one who was really benefiting from Regina's decline–was him." He nods toward Gold. "We figured it out: he's been running the show behind the scenes from the beginning. Regina was just his puppet, until Emma came to town–"

"Emma Swan-Gold, former sheriff of Storybrooke," Grayson explains.

"And then Gold had new puppets to play with. Regina's downfall was all his doing, him behind the scenes, pushing Snow to banish Regina."

"Whoa. What do you mean, 'banish'? This is the US, Glass, not some medieval monarchy."

""Regina was removed from office and had to leave town because no one would hire her," Locksley explains.

"Strange town you people live in," Keaton mutters, "but go on, Glass."

"The longer Spencer and me talked, the madder we got." Sid purses his lips. "And the drunker. Me, anyway. Spencer's got a wooden leg. Anyway, we were saying, somebody's got to rid us of this monster Rumplestiltskin."

"Mr. Gold's nickname," Locksley butts in. "Because he's, you know, short and into the dealmaking thing."

"Al–he said that: 'Call me Al,' like we were buddies now," Sid continues. "Al said, for the sake of the town–for the survival of the town, we got to get rid of him. So we started a petition, and we did, we got him banished too, but it was too late, he already had the town so deep in his pocket, he owned everything and everyone, so we had to break his stranglehold. And that's when Scrooge came in."

Keaton raises an eyebrow and Grayson shrugs. "Actual name. VP of the bank. Wilford Scrooge."

"Whose ex-wife and mistress are in the courtroom, ready to testify that Scrooge was deep in debt, and then in just a few months' time had money running like tap water, far in excess of his salary-"

Keaton holds up a warning hand. "Stop right there, Mr. Kamen. Mr., uh, Scrooge is not on trial."

"That, I intend to rectify shortly," Keaton smiles sweetly.

"Spencer brought him in," Glass reflects. "We started meeting at Spencer's house. It's the third biggest house in town, very impressive, just two streets over from Nob Hill, where Regina and Gold live. Lived. Anyway, we'd have some fine Kentucky bourbon and talk about what to do about Gold, and eventually, this idea emerged. He was too powerful for us, even after Snow exiled him, but not too powerful for the US government. And he'd made it so easy: he kept copies of all his business records in a deposit box in the bank. Then he made it even easier: he got married and took his silly little bride off on a world cruise for a whole year, and he did his income taxes by fax that year. For the first time, instead of doing them himself, he had Scrooge do them, and Scrooge would fax him the forms to sign, in Paris or Rome or Tokyo or whatever." Glass snickers. "For a guy who always kept his cards close to his vest, I guess love made him sloppy. All we had to do was fabricate a second set of books. We put a copy in the deposit box and a copy in his house, in a false-bottomed drawer."

Glass smirks. "That was my idea. Spencer got us into the house—again, too easy: the Golds were never home. Social climbers. We knew he kept hard copies of everything—handwritten copies—but we assumed, considering the extent of his reach, he'd have electronic records, so we put a keystroke logger on his office desktop." Glass snorts. "When we went back for it, we found the only time he used the damn thing was to send emails to some botanist in Peru and to Skype some monk in China. What a caveman! So that complicated things a bit, since we had to produce records in his handwriting, but then I remembered I'm a genie—about damn time, too. My magic's nowhere near as powerful as his, but at least, I have it—"

As Glass yammers on, Gold, white-faced, throws his hands in the air and everyone in the judge's chambers freezes, suspended in time, except Glass, who's blissfully chattering, so blindly proud of his magic that he isn't aware he's lost his audience. "And I'm not afraid to use it, just rusty. And so I said to Al, I can forge those records with my magic, perfect forgeries, and Al just kind of grinned and said, 'Of course you can. Why didn't we think of that before?' And I said, 'Just one problem. I can't access my magic on my own. The way it works, someone has to free me, and then I can access the magic to grant them three wishes.' And Al said, 'Wish Number One: destroy Gold. His fortune, his marriage, his friendships, his standing in the community—everything.' And I said, 'Wish Number Two: Bring Regina back.' And Spencer said, 'Wish Number Three: break up the Charmings.'

"That's when I got a brainstorm: I wasn't literally in the lamp any more, but I was, figuratively. I was so besotted with Regina that I was enthralled. So I said to Al and Wil, 'Free me from her control. My magic's made me her puppet. If you can break that spell, you'll release me and I can grant your wishes.' 'Nothing simpler,' Wil said. See, he's been keeping mistresses since time immemorial, so he's got friends in shady places, if you know what I mean. He got on the phone and before I could blink he was sitting me down in front of a VCR and showing me surveillance tapes of Regina and her—" Glass swallows hard—"boyfriends. Bedroom tapes. I always knew she was—making it with Graham, but—I thought that was the curse making her act that way. I dunno. I poured a tumbler of bourbon and sat there watching four hours of sex tapes and I got sick all over Spencer's Burberry carpet. I kept watching and drinking, and at one point I think I threw an empty bottle at the TV. The next day I had the world's worst hangover, but I wasn't hungover on Regina any more. I was free."

"And then you used your magic to forge my tax returns and the financial records I kept for Treadle and the shop," Gold says softly.

Sid seems to realize now that no one else is listening; at least, no one is reacting to his confession. In fact, no one else is moving at all. He leans forward and snaps his fingers under the judge's nose, and when the judge doesn't bat an eyelash, Sid glares at Gold. "What the hell?"

"Did your wish come true, Mr. Glass?" Kamen inquires, and Gold jerks his head around to stare at his attorney. "But—" Gold begins, then clamps his mouth shut and just stares, because he smells a scent he has to think a moment to identify, a combination of odors that, by rights, shouldn't be mixing together, but somehow are, and are now resulting in the scent of burnt honey.

Kamen's hands are glowing.

"I hadn't planned on coming out to you this way," Kamen smiles ruefully. "Sorry, Rumple. I was going to sit you and Belle down in your kitchen, maybe with a glass of Kentucky bourbon."

Glass' jaw has dropped, but he's still a step behind: he can't figure out what's going on. Gold is having a little trouble himself.

"By the way," Kamen adds, "what you suspected before, you were right. Your magic didn't do this." He waves a hand toward the spellbound audience. "I did. Your magic–the magic you have here, I mean—is still pretty limited. You've just barely got to the point of being able to make the sort of decisions that would grant you full use of your magic." He slaps Gold's shoulder. "I know, it's confusing. Just take my word for now. You'll get your training later. Right now, we've got this mess to clean up." He folds his arms and studies the scene before him: the judge, his head cocked sideways, unblinking; the bailiff, her hands on her hips, unmoving; the stenographer, fingers poised in mid-air; the television crew, Anguem and her assistant, all locked in motion. "Hmm. How do we fix this?"

Gold clears his throat. It's difficult to resist the siren call of questions, but for the moment—for just a moment—he chooses to play Kamen's game; for the present time, at least, Gold must acknowledge he's in the presence of a more powerful mage, one whose magic carries the honey scent of fairies, the moldy leaves scent of witches, the spicy scent of shamans, and the burnt flesh scent of the Dark One. "I suggest we get Glass' story in order first."

"Yes," Kamen agrees slowly. "Take the lead, Rumple."

Gold peels his lips back from his teeth and gets up into Glass' face. "Mr. Glass, listen carefully. You can see the predicament you're in. You don't want to piss me off, and most certainly, you don't want to disturb Mr. Kamen's plans. Do you? Unless you want the spend the remainder of your life in, say, the mirror of the men's room at Grand Central Station." When Glass shakes his head, Gold continues, "You're going to finish your confession to the judge. You're going to say you hired a master forger, someone you came across in your days of investigative journalism, someone who disappeared back into the woodwork like the termite he is, and will never be heard from again, no matter how hard the IRS investigators search. You're _not_ going to say another word about magic or lamps or curses or banishment or anything else that would tip these good people off to the true nature of Storybooke. And you're going to do this, not because I'm threatening you, but because you're smart enough to realize the consequences if the rest of the world finds out about Storybrooke—and genies."

Sid nods furiously and mutters a shocked expletive.

"Very good. And now we're going to do a little backtracking." There's a question in Gold's voice; he glances over at Kamen, who nods.

"I can manage that." Frowning in concentration, the attorney summons magic to his hands again, then waves a single finger in the air. The clock hung on the wall behind Keaton's desk shakes on its hook, then its minute hand clicks backward two spaces. Kamen's hands stop glowing and he sighs tiredly. "That's always a toughie."

"Indeed," Gold says in admiration. He realizes what Kamen has done is more than just reset a clock; he's reset Time itself. By just two minutes, but yet, it's more than any sorcerer in the Enchanted Forest has ever done.

Suddenly everyone is breathing and moving again, and Glass is babbling, unable to control the story that's flowing out of his mouth: "And he'd made it so easy: he kept copies of all his business records in a deposit box in the bank. Then he made it even easier: he got married and took his silly little bride off on a world cruise for a whole year, and he did his income taxes by fax that year." On and on he yammers, about false-bottomed drawers and deposit boxes and Gold's lovesick sloppiness and a mysterious expert forger who crawled out of the woodwork of some dive in the seediest part of Detroit and vanished again once the books had been cooked.

"Well." Keaton leans back in his chair. "That's quite some story, Glass." Over his shoulder he orders the bailiff, "Get a warrant ready for Albert Spencer and Wilford Scrooge. Sheriff Grayson can assist you with the specifics." He turns back to Glass. "So. Why now? You and your partners in crime came this far. Why not play out the hand? From what I saw of Ms. Anguem's preparations, you'd have probably succeeded in getting Mr. Gold convicted." Anguem bobs her head in gratitude for the compliment.

Glass flicks his thumb in the camera crew's direction. "It was them. They harassed us, me and Al and Wil, for months! Chasing us around town, interrupting any normal work we tried to get done, with their cameras and their microphones and their 'How much do know about the Gold tax fraud case?'" He mocks Locksley's ever-chipper voice. "'People are saying it's a frame-up. Did you do it, Glass? Are you involved, Sidney?' I'd be in line at the grocery store, and there's she'd be with her microphone and that damned never-ending smile. Or eating dinner at Dave's Fish and Chips, and her co-host, Hart Archer, would bust in and pepper me with questions. _Every day! _Outside my apartment, they'd be; or calling me in the middle of the night, hounding, hounding—and the sheriff, when I called him for help, he just laughed and said, 'You should know about freedom of the press, Glass.' Every damn morning on _Good Morning, Storybrooke_, it was 'The Gold Report,' how wonderful the Golds are, how they couldn't possibly have done anything criminal. They even had weekly reports from Gold's grandson about how dear old Grandpa's holding up. And the worst of it, they incited riots! Encouraged the public to attack me!"

"Oh, we did not," Goldie huffs. "Your Honor, may I show you? Is it all right if we use your PC?"

Keaton waves a dismissive hand, and as he rolls his chair back from the desk to give her space, Goldie slips in beside him, adjusts the monitor so everyone can see it and punches up Youtube.

**The image jerks, drops down for a shot of a sidewalk, then swings up again for a shot of someone's plaid-covered back, then goes blurry, then focuses on a picket sign: "FREE GOLD!" The camera pulls back and now more backs and more signs are discernible: "TELL THE TRUTH, SIDNEY!" "THIS IS A FRAME!" "LEAVE THE GOLDS ALONE!" Someone with a bullhorn—there's just a quick shot, but it's enough to make out a blonde ponytail—is shouting into it, and gradually the crowd—there appear to be fifty or so, all ages, all sizes (Gold even spots Leroy and Tom Clark)—gets its act together, and as they move en masse down the sidewalk, in pursuit of a figure hidden in their midst, they're chanting, "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!"**

**Hart Archer's sugary voice provides commentary as the crowd sounds are faded out: "This was the scene yesterday afternoon as protestors confronted former **_**Mirror**_** reporter Sidney Glass outside his apartment, demanding that Glass tell the truth in the Gold Tax Fraud case."**

**There's a close up of reporter Boyd Grayson, the sheriff's little brother, asking, "What do you hope to accomplish today?" He tilts his microphone away from himself and the camera shifts to Granny Lucas, who's holding a placard as if she wishes it were a crossbow. "We want him, or his co-conspirators, Wilford Scrooge and Albert Spencer, to tell the truth! That's all: we just want the truth! Rumple Gold may be the worst a—" here her voice is bleeped—"walking the planet, no arguments there, but in this situation, he's innocent! He did not commit tax fraud! He's being framed!" Granny glances over her shoulder in the direction of the crowd. "If we let Glass and Scrooge and Spencer get away with this, there's no stopping them. Who will they come after next?" She wheels around, her back to the camera, as the crowd continues to follow its prey down the sidewalk. She shakes her placard and shouts along with the protestors, "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!"**

**The image cuts to the **_**GMS**_** studio, where Hart says, "Thank you, Boyd. Now this protest, which appears to be very well organized, has been going on for weeks." The image cuts to film footage of Sidney, trying to squeeze through a crowd to get into the bank, with more shouts of "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" Then there's film of Spencer, his chin drawn against his chest. "Pish," the DA is saying. "A bunch of malcontents harassing innocent people as they go about their daily business. When is the sheriff going to uphold the peace?"**

**There's film of Grayson, looking unflappable in his uniform: "The protestors have permits from the mayor's office. As long as they don't tie up traffic or vandalize anything or enter a building without permission, they're not breaking the law."**

**An image of a crowd gathered on the lawn of Granny's Diner is punctuated by a voice-over from Mayor Geppetto Marco: "Yes, I granted them permits. They are practicing their right to assemble and to speak out. They believe an injustice has been done, and rather than take the law into their own hands, as some would do, they are practicing their civil rights. If any laws are broken in the process, the permits will be revoked."**

**Then Scrooge, the little patch of hair he has left now standing on end, is shown trying to enter a small house, and a red-haired woman appears at the doorway, thumping his butt with a broom and shrieking, "Get out, you two-bit Casanova! You liar!"**

**"The alleged conspirators—bank Vice President Wilford Scrooge, District Attorney Albert Spencer and Sidney Glass, currently unemployed—have become pariahs in Storybrooke, unwelcome in their own homes"—there's a shot of a maid in a frilly white apron and spiked heels storming out of Spencer's back door and yelling, "Get yourself another bimbo, Al! I'm through!" **

**Hart Archer continues, "Unwelcome in local businesses"—Scrooge is shown being forcibly evicted from the Dark Star Pharmacy by a still-sneezing dwarf. "Even unwelcome in church." The camera shows a church door being closed in Glass' face. **

**"This has been going on for months," a wild-eyed Glass pants. "I haven't had a minute's peace since Gold got arrested. It's her—her and her husband, Emma Swan and Nealfire Gold—they're behind all this. And the nuns and a bunch of people from the hospital and the dwarfs and the Nesmiths and the Romanos, and especially that b—[bleep] Ruby Hopper and her gunslinging granny. Somebody's got to stop them!"**

**Even Spencer seems a bit flustered. "Don't the law-abiding citizens have any rights here? Geppetto and Grayson need to be recalled immediately. Let's bring in law enforcement that will protect the public from harassment."**

**Glass' image again: "I can't even get anybody out to fix my clogged drain. I live in one of Gold's apartments!"**

**Goldie brings up another **_**GMS**_** clip. "This was from this morning, Your Honor."**

**In the burgeoning dawn, a hunched figure in a dark hoodie is caught on camera entering Granny's—and being chased right back out by the proprietor, who's throwing menus at him. On the street, he's bumped into by another figure in a hoodie; that figure sets a hand on the first man to right him, then fades into the alley. The first figure proceeds across the street, jaywalking; once safely across, he ducks into a bakery. Several minutes later, he emerges to find a small group of protestors waiting for him on the sidewalk. This time, however, the protestors are silent, allowing Emma to take the lead: "Sidney! I want to borrow a pen, Sidney! I need to sign a petition calling for you to be exiled. Loan me your pen, Sidney!"**

**The hooded figure tries to dodge, but the protestors follow and Emma calls again for a pen. They follow him to the street corner, where he attempts to step out into the crosswalk, but an oncoming Ford prevents him. Frustrated, Sidney throws back the hood of his jacket and growls, "Leave me alone!"**

**"I just want to borrow a pen, Sid, that's all. Loan me a pen and I promise we'll leave." Emma smiles faintly. **

**"I don't have—"**

**"Oh, I'm sure you do," Baelfire interrupts. "Just look in your pockets, huh? If you don't have a pen, we'll leave."**

**Shaking now, Glass thrusts his hands into his jeans pockets, then his jacket pocket. His mouth falls open as his right hand comes out of the jacket clenched. **

**Emma holds out her hand. "Thank you, Sid. I'll give it right back as soon as I've—" She gasps as she looks down at the object she's snatched from Glass. "This is some fancy pen, Sid! No fifty-cent Bics for you, huh? Bae, you gotta see this. It's a beauty." **

**Bae throws his arm around Emma's shoulder so he can lean in for a good look. "My, my, it certainty is, Em. Bet it's imported. Hey, there's something inscribed on the clip. What's it say, Sid? 'Forever.'" Now Bae's lips curl back. "Sid! You son of a—[bleep]! This is the pen Belle gave my dad for Christmas."**

**"Birthday," Emma corrects.**

**"Whatever. This is my dad's pen! There's no way in [bleep] he'd part with it. He never even let it leave his study, it was that precious to him. Glass, how did you get my dad's birthday pen?"**

**"Yeah, Sid, how?" Emma presses.**

**The protestors start chanting, "Tell the truth! Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" Doors and windows are thrown open up and down the street, and heads poke out. The louder they get, the more people come pouring out of buildings to join the crowd. "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" Sidney backs up until he's literally against the wall; the crowd gets bigger and louder, and children on their way to school stop to join in. Sheriff Grayson, shouting something into his phone, comes running from Granny's, with coffee sloshing out of a Styrofoam cup. "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" A school crossing guard and a pair of nurses join in. Archie, out walking Pongo, pauses to assess the situation, then he falls in with the crowd. Granny comes with fist raised, leaving the door to her restaurant standing open. The former Mrs. Scrooge comes, waving a broom. And all the while, the trusty **_**GMS**_** cameraman is rolling film. Goldie arrives in a bathrobe and bunny slippers; she grabs the microphone from the cameraman and thrusts it through a sea of arms and placards as she shouts, "Sidney Glass, what are you feeling right now?"**

**"Grayson!" Glass bellows. "Get me out of here!"**

**"Causing a disturbance, are you, Glass?" Grayson grunts. "Do you have a permit for this assembly?"**

**"What?! Me? What are you—" Glass tries to move left but comes face to bosom with Granny. "Oooph! Out of my way, you old hag!" **

**A collective gasp rises over the chanting and Granny can be heard to call for her crossbow. **

**Goldie persists, "Sidney, how does it feel to know your neighbors want you to leave town? Are you afraid, Sidney? Your neighbors want you gone. Local businesses won't trade with you. You can't even get a decent haircut because Barney won't let you into his barber shop. Sidney Glass, what are you going to do?"**

**"Grayson, help!" **

**"Tell the truth, tell the truth!"**

**"Where did you get my dad's pen, Sidney?"**

**"Did you steal it, Sidney? 'Cause there's no way in [bleep] Gold would've given it to you."**

**"Tell the truth! Tell the truth!"**

**"Grayson! Help!" Sidney stumbles over someone's foot and falls back against the Welcome to Storybrooke mural. He slides to the dirt, hands grasping at air. Someone reaches over to lift him to his feet again. "All right! I took it! I took the damn pen!"**

**Sudden silence, except for Sidney's panting.**

**Emma waves her hand to get everyone's attention. "Okay, back off, everyone. Let Dick in."**

**Yanking handcuffs from his belt, Grayson pushes through and the crowd parts for him. The shouting, the chanting, the placard waving cease. The air fills with the sounds of distant traffic, birds chirping, a radio playing Don Mclean's "Everybody Loves Me, Baby."**

**Aided by a pair of dwarfs, Grayson hauls Sidney upright and slaps on the cuffs. "Sidney Glass, you have the right to remain silent. . . ."**

The on-screen Sidney and the in-the-flesh Sidney are sobbing now. The former bobs his head. "I did it, I did it, but it wasn't just me. It wasn't even my idea. Besides, he deserved it. Somebody had to do something. The Dark One has to be stopped."

The Youtube video ends and Goldie shuts off the computer.

Keaton clears his throat as the stenographer reaches into his pocket to produce a handkerchief for Glass. "The Dark One, huh? That's your nickname, I suppose." He glances over his bushy eyebrows at Gold, who nods. Keaton pushes a button on his desk phone and speaks into the receiver. "Security, we need some assistance here." He hangs up and informs Grayson, "Sergeant Orson will show you to the holding cell in the dungeon—err, basement. Kindly escort your prisoner there."

The room falls silent. The second hand on the wall clock can be heard ticking. There's an audible sigh from several people at once. Keaton makes some notes on a pad, then rises, offering his hand to Grayson. "Sheriff, thank you for bringing this to my attention. You saved the government a great deal of time and embarrassment." He shakes hands with Goldie. "Ms. Locksley, thank you for the information." He continues to shake hands all around. "Ms. Anguem, you're a talented prosecutor. Your attention to detail is impressive. Better luck next time. Mr. Kamen, well done. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to bring Mr., uh, Baelfire Gold and Ms. Emma Swan-Gold in. I presume, considering the depth of their involvement, they attended court today?" At Kamen's nod, Keaton continues, "Good. I'd like a brief word with them. Very curious as to how they knew about that pen."

Now he eyes Gold, who straightens his shoulders under the scrutiny. "Mr. Gold, my apologies for the grievous error that was made. I have to admit, though, I thought it was going to go the other way. Ms. Anguem's evidence was most impressive. Though it did give me pause: why a man of your wealth would go to so much trouble to defraud the government and your son's charity for a measly 750 grand. But then again, I've seen much worse done for much less." He offers his hand and Gold accepts it. "Mr. Gold, I'm sorry for the loss of time, the loss of income, the hardship and the embarrassment this fraudulent case has caused you and your family. I hope you'll be able to resume some semblance of your former life, once your attackers have been brought to justice."

"Thank you, Your Honor." As Gold shakes the judge's hand, he wonders if any semblance of his former life will ever be reclaimed. He's angry and bitter, of course he is, and for damn sure he'll be in the courtroom when the Evil S's each go on trial; but he and Belle, Emma and Bae, Jo and Fran have come out intact, and that's something, isn't it? Keaton returns to his desk. "Now, if you folks will excuse me, I have a case to close out."

* * *

><p>The intruders file out, closing the door to the judge's chambers behind them. The cameraman starts to roll film, first of Anguem and her assistant clattering away in their high heels, then of Gold and Kamen, just standing quietly in the corridor, collecting their thoughts and their breath. Goldie picks up the microphone and starts to approach Gold, then stops, shakes her head. "He deserves a minute to himself. We'll do the wrap-up outside." As Grayson brushes by her, she brightens. "Oh, sheriff, could we have a word with you?" The three Storybrookers follow the Prosecution team out.<p>

Now only Kamen and Gold remain in the corridor.

Glancing down at his own hands, Gold remembers those mortgage coupons stamped "paid" and Browning's humble job offer and Blue's wicker basket of veggies and the rally that took place outside the bail hearing and the anti-exile petitions and the little boy in the wheelchair who visited the Bell's Corners jail to give him a coloring book.

Only after he's remembered all that does he remember the magic.

"You're one stubborn son of a gun, you know that?" Kamen chuckles. "It took a helluva lot to get through to you."

"'Get through'?" Gold is only half-listening, his mind still on that coloring book.

"That you need people as much as they need you," Kamen explains. "And that it's okay to receive as well as give. That's how teams are made." He gestures to the stairwell. "Let's go down to the courtroom. Your family's probably pretty confused still."

Gold shakes off his reverie and follows Kamen down the hall. "What's this about teams? And by the way, who the hell _are_ you?"

Kamen feigns insult. "I told you, I'm the cousin of the crocodile."


	75. Chapter 75

Chapter 75

Khan: _"If our path is right, there is only one course to follow."_

* * *

><p>"Spend some time with your family," Kamen urges as he and Gold return to the courtroom, where Belle, Emma, Bae and Henry are waiting with much of the Bell's CornersStorybrooke community still surrounding them. "Take it easy for a few months. Reclaim your property. I'll be back in touch when you're ready to start your training."

Befuddled, Gold can only echo, "What training?"

"Oh, you know a lot, Rumplestiltskin, but you're going to learn even more."

Just for a second, the old Rumplestiltskin rears his head back and roars in indignation that not only has he been tricked—not only has his family been humiliated and brought low just for the sake of manipulating him—but now, the manipulator is giving him orders, as though Kamen is a general and Gold is a new, raw recruit in some kind of army of mages. When it comes to magic, nobody outranks Rumplestiltskin, nobody, not even Merlin himself, Gold is ready to shout, but then, that Time reversal stunt gives Gold pause.

"This, how much of this," Gold waves his hand around to indicate the courtroom, "was your doing?"

"Well, that's hard to say." Kamen lowers his voice as Belle, Bae and Emma spot them and rush over. "We work a lot like you do. As you would say, 'When two people have what the other one wants, a deal can always be struck.' We could provide what Spencer wanted; he could provide what we wanted: namely, you, humbled. So we planted some ideas in Spencer's and Sid's and Scrooge's heads while they slept. Ole Lukoje is on our team." He leans toward Gold to whisper as Belle runs up, "Just a little something to think about: how was it a family law attorney had a tax attorney's business card in his Rolodex? We'd never met before." He smiles and holds out his hand to Belle. "Belle, I know you're worried. Don't be."

Before Belle can ask, Kamen climbs up on a bench and calls for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, if we could have your kind indulgence, my client has an announcement."

As people look up, some clambering to their feet, Gold raises his voice. "It's over. We won. You, your persistence, won." Briefly he explains.

There's applause, there are handshakes and back slaps and hugs and cheek kisses, and lots of noise for several minutes, along with vows to see this job through to the end, because it's not finished until the Evil S's are convicted. Then Mayor Bell suggests that even though it's only been an hour since breakfast, a celebratory brunch is in order and she and Eb (what a world, Gold thinks, where a guy named Eb and a guy named Rumple would be fishing buddies) are buying and she knows just the place. With the promise of free food, everyone gathers round for driving directions, and then they pour from the courtroom, with Henry remembering at the last minute his friends from MAGE-TV, so he runs out to the lawn to interrupt Goldie's interview with Grayson so he can share the news of the celebration. Soon enough there's another convoy of noisy but generously tipping small-town Mainers invading a Portland eatery.

Gold and Belle, though they'd rather drag themselves home for some much needed rest, are caught in the middle of the party, and once again, Gold gives a heartfelt speech thanking everyone for their efforts and their trust. "Seems I'm doing this a lot lately," he blushes, and they laugh. "But I'm grateful that I have friends to say thanks to. There's no way I can ever repay you for all the kindness you've shown me and Belle—" He looks around at the shaking heads and realizes that's the old Rumplestiltskin emerging again, always relating to people only through deals. These aren't customers, he reminds himself: he'd gladly do anything for any one of these people without expecting anything more than a "thank you" in return. Nor is he a customer to them; there's nothing to pay back here.

Then he realizes he's not the old Rumplestiltskin any more, not to them, not to himself, and that's the way it _should_ be. So he finishes his speech with a toast to friendship, and he swallows the lump in his throat along with his iced tea, and he's humbled, humbled by the power of community, which impresses him as much as the power of any magic he's ever seen, and his humbleness makes him feel stronger, capable of protecting and committed to serving his town.

He returns to work the next day. His bank accounts have been released—he receives a certified letter indicating so—and Belle immediately gives her two weeks' notice at the motel, but Gold will continue to work at Browning's, as he promised and as he wants. In the evening, he and Belle go shopping, restocking their refrigerator with their favorite gourmet dishes, then they sit down at the kitchen table and write out checks to pay off their debts. When they fall into bed that night, they're too tired, too emotionally spent, to talk about what they've experienced this year, and what they've learned from it. That talk will come later. As Kamen suggested, they really do need rest.

* * *

><p>Eventually, Emma returns to the sheriff's office; Bae reopens Treadle; Jo reopens the antiques shop; Henry resumes his round of classes-baseball practice-coffee shop dates. The Swan-Golds drop in for breakfast on a daily basis again, and fishing trips and camping trips are taken up again. Blue and Gold rebuild their garden and their herbal medicine trainings. Gold does not, however, take back his magic shows at the hospital: as he predicted, that's Bernie's gig now, and he's been forgotten by all but Angelo. That's as it should be: children should be reaching for the future instead of hanging onto the past, as their parents do.<p>

Visitors come and go to Creativity Camp, bringing business to the tailor shop as well as the restaurants, the tackle shop, the car-leasing company, the antiques shop. Sometimes the visitors build summer homes in Bell's Corners; sometimes they retire here. The town grows slowly, thoughtfully, under the guidance of the city council and the Development Committee, co-chaired by Fran Dove and Rumple Gold.

Gold almost forgets he has magic again.

Just once, because he needs to know how far his freedom extends, he crosses into Storybrooke with the now nameless Dark One's dagger. As soon as the Caddy rolls over the orange line, his name, his _old_ name, reappears on the blade; when he backs up, the name vanishes, leaving the blade empty of etchings.

After that, he never visits Storybrooke any more, so his Dark magic never awakens to nag him; this new, gentler magic sleeps, only to awaken on odd occasions, such as when he's coaxing the garden to life or when he's tossing a football with Henry or when he writes with the Forever pen. He calls upon the magic only rarely—he has no use for it—and then just to feel that it's still there.

A year passes. The Evil S's are brought to trial, one by one; first the weak link, Sidney, who cops a plea bargain in return for testifying against the others. Surprisingly, Spencer buckles too, and Scrooge is the lone holdout. His trial lasts two days, with Gold brought in as one of many witnesses (the redhead and the blonde take the stand too) and with magical intervention from Gold or Kamen whenever Scrooge starts to reveal Storybrooke's true nature. Scrooge is found guilty. Storybrooke quickly forgets the Evil S's after they're hauled off to prison in Augusta: the town has other worries, with mounting economic troubles and declining population. The Charmings, preoccupied, leave it to the Golds to host Thanksgiving and Christmas parties. The Golds are delighted to do so, to dust off their cookbooks and work together in the kitchen again, Tschaikovsky and Bach and Beethoven and Schubert playing on the stereo. They invite Kamen; he sends a Christmas card and a bottle of wine along with his apologies.

Gold and Belle almost forget, so deep into their daily lives they are wrapped, their contentment disturbed only by birth announcements in the local newspaper. They almost forget the Evil S's, Storybrooke, the Enchanted Forest, Lady Belle and the Dark One. They forgive (with moments of backsliding, when bitterness flares) all of those people, including their past selves.

And then on the first day of spring in the second year after of the trial, Gold receives a text message on his new iPhone: _It's time, Rumple. Expect me tonight at eight (unless you'd like to invite me for dinner first?). Your cousin in magic, Kevin._

Belle grabs the phone away to text back: _Be here at 6:30. Be hungry. Love, Belle and Rumple._

At 6:25 she's on the porch, watching the passing traffic on Perch Street. "Do you remember what model of car he drives?" she calls back over her shoulder to her husband, who's just taking the rosemary rolls out of the oven.

"Not really," he answers. "Should I baste the chicken again?"

"No, I think we're ready to eat now," comes a deep voice behind him. He wheels about to find Kamen, dressed in a Red Sox jersey and jeans, with a bottle of wine in each hand. "White or red? I didn't know what the entrée would be, so I brought both."

"How'd you get past Belle on the porch?" Gold puzzles, then answers Kamen's question. "White. We're having lemon-and-thyme roasted chicken."

"Chardonnay it is then." One of the bottles vanishes from Kamen's hand, and that answers Gold's question: Kamen used magic to transport himself from Portland. In his now-empty hand, Kamen conjures a corkscrew and sets to work opening the Chardonnay.

"Good to see you again, Kevin," Gold greets, then calls out to Belle. "Sweetheart! Kevin's here."

"Good to see you, Rumple. Which cupboard for the wine glasses?" Gold shows him as Belle, huffing, comes in.

She sets her fists on her hips. "You could have announced yourself first, Kevin. Rather rude just to pop in." But she gives him a forgiving peck on the cheek.

"Sorry, Belle. I've been practicing my magic pretty seriously, lately, to get ready for your husband. If you don't mind, I'd like to take you two somewhere after dinner."

"All right." Belle starts setting the table. They'll be supping in the kitchen tonight rather than the dining room: it's one of the ways they show Kamen they consider him family. As another of the ways, she ties an apron around his waist. "Let's put you to work tossing the salad, as soon as you've poured the wine."

As he plates the chicken, Gold asks over his shoulder, "Magic lessons?"

"Not yet," Kamen says. "I have some people I want you to meet."

"We need to be back by eleven," Belle urges. "Tomorrow's a workday."

"Did you ever think about retiring, Rumple?" Kamen finishes pouring the wine and makes the bottle disappear. "You're a billionaire and, what, five hundred years old. It's allowed, you know."

"_Four_ hundred years old, thank you very much," Gold snipes. "It's not about money. I've promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Or so I hope." He sets the chicken on the table and juts his chin in the direction of a cupboard. "Salad bowl's on the bottom shelf, tongs are in the drawer left of the sink."

Obediently, Kamen fetches the dishes as Belle presents him with vegetables for the salad. "A raspberry vinaigrette tonight, Kevin," Belle instructs, bringing a cruet from the refrigerator. "We're eating lighter these days. By the way, we're glad you could come. We've missed you."

He looks genuinely touched, this wizard-tax attorney in a "Grill Sergeant" apron (Christmas gift for Gold from Henry), and Belle pauses to study him. "Hey, you've never mentioned a wife. Would you like to meet—"

Kamen corrects, "Husband. In my case, it would be a husband I'd mention. But no, I'm single and I want to keep it that way. My last romance kind of took it out of me, you know?"

Belle strokes his arm as he pours vinaigrette over the salad. "Do you want to talk about it? Maybe I could help."

A sly smile dances on his lips. "Well, he was everything I looked for: tall and smart, smoldering eyes and the sexiest Romanian accent. We were deliriously happy, until I woke up one morning to him biting my neck—and it wasn't to give me a hickey. Turns out he was a vampire."

"You're kidding me." Belle frowns. "Next you're going to tell me your mother was a mummy." She glances at Gold. "He is kidding me, isn't he? There's no such thing as vampires. . . is there?"

Gold shrugs over the peas-and-pearl onions he's dishing up. "Not sure I believe in them, any more than I believe in fairies and witches and sorcerers."

She slaps his arm. "Just for that, you're washing the dishes tonight."

"Can't. Got a meeting to go to." He inspects the table as he sets the bowl of peas down. "Okay, soup's on." He withdraws a chair for Belle before seating himself, and as he passes the chicken to Kamen, he wonders, "So. . . cousin, eh? As in kinfolk?"

"More like, birds of a feather. Or in our case, crocodylians of a hide, I guess. I came from Dark magic too, initially. Had to learn the hard way, like you, which is why they assigned me to you. Took a long time for me to prepare to be your mentor: I had to go to law school and everything." At the Golds' exclamations of surprise, he says, "Yeah. We've been watching and waiting for you a long time."

Gold darkens. "How long? How much _preparation_ did you do, Kamen?"

"No." Kamen shakes his head firmly as he cuts into his chicken breast. "I know what you're thinking, especially since we kind of pulled the strings on Spencer's scheme. We're not that low, Rumple: we didn't have anything to do with Blue giving Bae the magic bean. We've always known about you, of course, but you were out of reach until Regina cast your curse. It was then we started preparing for you." He sets a comforting hand on Belle's wrist. "Don't worry. You don't know us yet to trust us, but you know your husband's heart. He'll look us over, and if he decides to work with us, you'll know our hearts are true, too."

"He has a choice, then." Belle relaxes.

"Of course. Just from a practical perspective, we wouldn't try to force anything: he's too powerful for us to make an enemy of. I hope, in short order, Belle, you'll be on our side, because we certainly have been on yours. Rumple, we don't want you as a vassal; we want you as a peer." He licks his lips. "Mmm. Love this lemon and thyme baste. Wish I could cook."

"So." Gold sets down his fork and leans back. He's hungry, but he's hungrier still for information. In the old days, he would have sent out a tendril of magic to size up the power of another mage; but right now, the light magic in his veins remains dozing. Maybe it's time he put his faith in his own judgment instead of magic's. "Who are 'we'?"

"Well." Kamen swallows and pats his mouth with a napkin. "Until the twentieth century, we didn't have a name for ourselves. We were just a group of magic practitioners, some local, most of us from distant worlds, like the ones you're familiar with and ones you've never been able to perceive. Some that don't exist any more. Originally, we met to, well, commiserate: a lot of us had faced persecution, either in our own lands or this one. And we'd swap recipes, so to speak, spells and potions and such. Some of us were more record-oriented, and they developed books to support our trainings—those scribes are kind of hoping you'll come to work with them, considering your penchant for recordkeeping. They admire the book you wrote for Henry."

"The book of Enchanted Forest tales. _Once Upon a Time_," he explains to Belle before turning his attention back to Kamen. "You seem to know quite a lot about me, dearie."

"We should. You're important." Kamen helps himself to another roll and slathers it with butter. "Mmm. Wish I could cook. Just for convenience sake, we finally gave ourselves a name, after the telephone was invented: the Society of Sorcerers. Well, _that _went over like a lead balloon when a Seer joined our group just prior to World War I, so then we became the Society of Sorcerers and Seers. When we made an acronym out of it, though. . . ."

Belle produces the sound: it's a hiss.

"Yeah. And some of us felt like 'sorcerer' had negative connotations, in this world; so we changed it to Society of Mages and Seers. And after WWII got started, we decided we needed something that would reflect our place and purpose in this world, so we became, and remain today, the Society of Embedded Mages and Seers. It was the first time we actively intervened in a war, in the trenches, hence the 'embedded.' We thought it was too important for us to sit that one out." He bites into his roll with great satisfaction. "We were the first to use 'embedded' in that way."

"Society of Embedded Mages and Seers," Belle rolls it around on her tongue. "SEMS. I like it."

"I hope you'll like _us_, too." Kamen smiles at her. "You think that because you're not magical, you have no power, but you're wrong. Your perceptiveness and intuition have helped to shape some very magical people." He glances at Gold. "I guess that's a rather long-winded explanation of our name, but it doesn't tell you a whole lot about us."

Gold shakes his head. "Names are important, especially those we give ourselves." He contemplates for a moment. "Do you still 'actively intervene'?"

"Very rarely. Only in emergencies. People have to choose their own fate; our purpose is to help them find the path, then find their own power so they can stay on it."

"And your mission?"

"To serve and protect. We were the first to use that phrase, too. To serve mankind and to protect the Light."

"Light magic?" Gold guesses.

"More than that. Kindness, caring, True Love, _agape_—to put it simply, Good."

"Who judges what's good?" Gold asks promptly.

"That's why we seldom intervene directly. We work through people, those special people who are of this land but are also of the divine. They lead. We give them the opportunity."

"People like Gandhi and King," Belle speculates, then she scowls. "You said 'protect.' Where we you on January 30, 1948, or April 4, 1968?"

Kamen lowers his gaze. "There are events not even the most powerful mages can prevent."

"Events that must happen for Destiny to be served," Gold adds, thinking of Bae's fall through the portal.

"Perhaps. Even our most powerful Seers can't See that far. We won't know until the end whether those events served Good or Evil—or nothing at all."

"I'll come with you tonight," Gold says abruptly. "I'll meet your peers, listen to what they have to say, and then I'll decide." He reaches across the table to Belle. "We'll decide."


	76. Chapter 76

Chapter 76

Khan: "_it is well to consider deeply before binding yourself to an idea, a cause or a man."_

* * *

><p>Kamen has taken them not to a stately mansion or a hidden retreat as one might expect for a meeting of mages, but rather to a skyscraper in some large city. He's transported the three of them by magic, refusing any assistance from Gold; they arrive smoothly enough in the lobby of a skyscraper, but when Gold glances at Kamen's hands, he notices the magic there has dimmed. Kamen blushes. "Yeah. Ahem. Well, it's been a while since I carried passengers."<p>

"I've been wondering," Gold remarks, "in the judge's chambers, why did you turn back Time when you could've simply wiped memories? It would have been much less draining on you."

Now Kamen fully reddens and stares at the elevator buttons instead of his companions. "I guess—you've always been kind of the gold standard—pardon the pun—when it comes to technical aspects of magic, and I guess I wanted to show off a bit, do something you can't, so you'd respect me."

"That's so sweet," Belle says, giving Kamen's arm a squeeze.

"Kevin, I respected you from the moment you said you could beat the IRS for me," Gold replies. "So. Where are we?"

"New York City. We're a block off Central Park." This, Kamen explains as they ride the elevator up, is the home of the youngest of the mages, a master of metals who, in this world, owns a software company in California. Chloe herself answers the door when they ring, and after exchanging cheek kisses with Kamen, she welcomes the newcomers. She's dressed in Stella McCartney—Belle takes to her right away. Chloe links arms with both Golds and walks them into her spacious but, right now, crowded living room.

Someone pours wine for the newcomers; Chloe introduces him as an Elemental who, in this world, works as head sommelier in a Washington, DC, restaurant ("The perfect position for gathering gossip—and for eating very well," the Elemental pats his belly).

Gold surveys the crowd for familiar faces from his Enchanted Forest past. Belle leans in to Chloe and whispers, "Are they all magic users?" At the hostess' nod, Belle remarks, "They look so. . . normal." And indeed they are: not exceedingly beautiful or elegant or even powerful, these people could be easily mistaken for taxi drivers or coffee shop clerks or CFOs or nurses or professors.

Or tailors or librarians.

"All the better to fit in, my dear," Kamen waggles his eyebrows wolfishly.

"We're embedded," Chloe says. "We decided long ago we needed to live _as_ humans if we were going to learn how to serve them. Thirty days a month, we're working stiffs like everyone else. One day a month, we come together as magic practitioners."

"And as influencers," Kamen adds. "Hoping to make small changes in the world that will enable the chosen ones to rise to their destinies and lead."

"Now, let's introduce you around."

Gold knows his answer even before the first mage shakes his hand. Something in him speaks to something in them, something deeper and older than their bodies, something that stretches to the beginnings of life and magic. Though he knows his answer, he listens to their sales pitch, to satisfy the human part of his mind, the part that doesn't trust instinct and requires "proof." Besides, a slight shiver that passes through Belle's hand into his clues him in that curiosity has overtaken her and she won't relax until she's heard the story. He, however, really doesn't need it: the ancient fibers of his magic carry the story already.

"Won-Que!" Belle exclaims, and the monk bows to them, then, reflecting his partly Western education, kisses their cheeks on both sides of the face. She gives him a hug, brief because she doesn't want to embarrass him. "We had no idea you were part of this."

"All things in their time, Mrs. Gold." The exchanged glance between Won-Que and Gold, however, demonstrates that Gold is not surprised.

Nor is he surprised when a hump-shouldered, leathery fellow nudges the monk aside and thumps Gold on the back in grinning welcome. "Rumplestiltskin, _mijo_!"

Chuckling–for at his age, Gold is well beyond being anyone's _mijo–G_old introduces his Peruvian rival/friend. "Belle, this is Alejandro Rosario, whom I meant at the retreat in Lima. He speaks no English–"

"A little," Rosario corrects. "I speak a little. Well, quite a lot, actually." He smiles apologetically. "When you've lived in this world five hundred years, you have time to study."

"Why did you–when we worked together at the retreat–" Gold sputters. "You acted like you didn't understand a word I was saying."

Rosaro shrugs. "It wasn't time. Now it is."

"One of the qualities we like best about you is your patience." Kamen sets a directing hand on Gold's shoulder. "Three hundred years building a single curse–I couldn't do that." He urges the Golds forward to meet the other mages. They come in all sizes, ethnicities and ages, and both genders: there are as many women as men, and Gold smiles, knowing that's a plus for Belle. They've come from all the lands of magic that Gold has ever heard of, along with some he hasn't, and that's a plus for him, especially as their talents are introduced to him; if he puts his competitive pride aside, he can see Kamen was right: there's much he can learn here. Yet, he keeps hearing from them how much they admire his knowledge–for most of them, more far-reaching than theirs, as they've chosen to specialize, capitalizing on their innate abilities and inclinations. And every one of the thirty-three expresses an anticipatory gratitude for his acceptance of their invitation to join their cause. They know: as they shake his hand their magic tastes his, very gently and briefly so as not to be rude, but the contact is enough: his magic informs them he's already decided to join them.

Husband-and-wife knowledge, passing through Belle's hand clenched in his, informs him Belle's made the same decision. Whatever it is in her that enables her to read hearts–he's never seen anyone else with this ability, so he doesn't know if it's a rare, inborn magic she possesses or just a human talent–she's already called upon it, and it's made its assessment.

Still, they will listen, then at home, they will discuss what they've heard and seen and felt, and only later, a day or a week perhaps, they will make their commitment. Although they both have decided to trust these mages, they don't know yet what would be expected of them if they join these ranks, nor whether their personal goals align with those if SEMS.

Trays of hors d'ouvres are passed around—not by servants, but family style. Chloe positions herself in the center of the living room and claps her hands to draw attention; the chatter ceases and eyes turn to her expectantly. "Good evening, folks. Everyone's here, so let's get started. Kevin?" She yields the floor, seating herself on the arm of a couch that the Golds have taken seats on.

"Well, you've all met our guests informally, and you've certainly heard a lot about them over the past thirty years." People chuckle softly and Kevin shrugs at the Golds. "I told ya, we've been waiting a long time for you, and we're going to do our damnedest to make a good first impression. Just to make it formal: Seers and sorcerers, wizards and witches, we welcome to our ranks, if he'll have us, Rumplestiltskin of Misthaven, where he is known as the Dark One, the Spinner, the Deal Maker, and the most powerful mage in the land. Many lands, actually, for his knowledge bridges all forms of magic and he's mastered nearly them all."

Gold winces just a little at the _nearly_.

"And we welcome, if she'll have us, Rumplestiltskin's wife, Lady Belle of Avonlea, Yagoai Tamer, who has a most precious skill that we hope to employ in our next endeavor."

Belle cocks her head in curiosity. "You need a housekeeper?"

Chloe shakes her head slowly. "We need a mother."

"Chloe! Let's not scare the lady off before she's even finished her first glass of wine," the sommelier protests.

"Don't worry, Belle," Kevin pleads. "And please don't run away! We'll explain everything in due time. Won-Que, maybe you'd better pick it up from here. Won-Que's our chief scribe and historian." Wearily, Kamen takes a seat and the monk replaces him in the center of the room.

The monk, who's dressed in an off-the-rack Western style suit instead of the robes Gold and Belle have always seen him in, ponders for a moment, then begins. "In the time of Emperor Yongle, I arrived in this world, a refugee from a land devastated by greed. The powerful of that land were at constant war with each other, always seeking more; and in the end, those among them who had gained magic used that magic to wreak total destruction. I saw a very similar magic employed in this land, when the atomic bomb was created.

"In the beginning, I was alone. I lived in the shadows, fearfully, never daring to practice my craft, never daring to speak when I saw evil around me. I thought to protect myself from persecution by hiding in a monastery, but rather, I discovered other students of magic there. Most were people of this land, but gradually, I met others who had traversed realms. Slowly, in secret, we began to meet, to remember who we were and to ask of ourselves why the Fates had brought us here.

"As we grew in number and in power, we began to ask ourselves if we were meant to serve a purpose here, something beyond self-protection. We began to observe and report and study in earnest, and we began to feel a calling to use the talents we had to serve a larger purpose. We came to believe that we were meant, not to eradicate Evil, because Evil serves a purpose too: mankind must always have a choice. But rather, we were meant to protect and nurture Good. But even as centuries passed, magic practitioners gained no acceptance in this world, and in fact by most mortals are assumed, even today, to be minions of the Devil. We decided we had to remain hidden, doing small acts of Good that most people could write off as 'luck' or 'miracles.' The larger acts had to come from the mortals themselves. And we saw that this was right, in order for mankind to retain free will.

"So in each generation we seek out an individual who carries in him or her a strong connection to the divine, a gift to lead and a hunger to serve, and with small acts of magic we clear the way for that one to rise, to fulfill his or her destiny and to bring mankind a little closer to the Light. Some of the chosen are people whose names are carved into mankind's history; others never achieved such prominence, but through their work effected lasting change.

"We open paths and hope that the candidates will take them. We never push, but sometimes we nudge; we never trick but we do plant ideas through dreams and the power of suggestion. A book that suddenly catches the eye, a chance meeting with just the right teacher, a musical refrain that sparks the imagination, a photograph that leaves an indelible impression on the heart: inspiration, they call it; we call it work.

"We choose candidates that our Seers can see a destiny for, but the candidate always chooses his or her own way. Most of the time, it works out and the world improves a little through our efforts. But this time, we're anxious, as anxious as we felt when we decided to involve ourselves directly in World War II. Our Seers foretell a series of catastrophes over the next four generations that will lead to irreparable harm to the planet. We believe we can lessen the damage, if the right leaders emerge, and you two have presented us with a unique opportunity, one we think the Fates have gifted us with.

"Never before has the right combination of magics come together: your sorcery, Rumple, and the touch of the divine that resides in you, Belle. For two so different to have been gifted with True Love, it's a most amazing thing, very special, very powerful, and we urge you to consider why you were blessed in this way. If it's not to serve a higher purpose than yourselves, then what? You've already felt the calling, I daresay, to reach out beyond your family.

"As long as you stay together, and as long as you stay true to Love, you will have access to its magic. That's why we prepared this path for the two of you, the false crimes you were accused of. I'm sorry for extreme measures; it's not how we work, usually, but Rumplestiltskin, a lifetime of rejection had isolated you. You began to come out of that isolation with the small nudges we gave you, but though you reached out, you would not let others in, still too prideful and too fearful to depend upon your fellow man. So we whispered in Snow White's ear 'exile,' and then you saw that you needed others and they needed you, and you began to open yourself, but it was happening so very slowly, and we have so little time to change the course this world is on, and so we took advantage of your enemies, and you were brought low. It was only when you had no other recourse that you bound yourself to the people around you. By learning to be served, you are ready to serve."

Gold reflects, "You said to me once that I lived a half-life."

"Yes. You see yourself in entirety now. We invite you now, Rumplestiltskin and Belle Gold, to serve with us, and to be served by us. Give us your answer when you're ready, but please, don't take too long."

The room falls silent as Won-Que refills his wine glass and sits down. Then Chloe jumps her feet and announces, "Okay, it's show-and-tell time. Who has something to share? A new potion? A revised spell? An unearthed scroll of ancient magic?"

The Golds walk away with three fresh magic lessons and much to think about.

* * *

><p>As he drifts off to sleep that night, Gold reflects on his very long life and the path he's wandered to reach this fork in the road. All those centuries he bargained and studied and experimented to perfect his skills, and it turns out he'd missed the point. His life wasn't the magic. It never was. What he was supposed to learn all along was that love was his, unconditional love and all it entailed: trusting, caring, supporting through thick and thin, no matter what, giving help freely, and accepting help in return, asking for it when he couldn't manage alone, and understanding love made it his right to ask, just as it was his privilege to receive.<p>

Well, he might be a slow learner, but what he learns, he keeps.

* * *

><p>In three days Belle texts a dinner invitation to Kamen.<p>

He texts back immediately. "_Does that mean you've decided?_"

"_Yes. Be here at 7. Bring Pinot Noir. We're having salmon._"

"_Yes you've decided or yes you'll join us?_"

"_Yes._"

"_Aw come on, Belle!_"

* * *

><p>He appears on the front porch with a bottle of wine in one hand and a basket of flowers in the other. A balloon tied to the basket depicts a stork carrying a baby by the diaper. "Thought this might help, in case you're leaning toward the negative," Kamen declares. "Just a little sly reference toward the project we have in mind for you two, if your answer's in the affirmative."<p>

Belle laughs and accepts the basket. "Rumple, he's here! Come in, Kevin."

Wiping his hands on a dishtowel, Gold comes out of the kitchen. "Hello, Kevin. Hope you're hungry. I made a Boston cream pie."

"Then it's a yes!" Kamen deduces. "Cause if it was a no, you know I'd be too depressed to eat." Then he ambles into the kitchen and opens the stove to see what's cooking. "Well, maybe I'd eat, but I'd be too depressed for second helpings."

Belle laces her fingers through her husband's. "I think we should put him out of his misery, don't you?"

Kamen feigns alarm. "That's what they say just before they say, 'Shoot him.'"

Belle clicks her tongue and Gold remarks, "So insecure, dearie. Do we really mean that much to you?"

"Look at all we went through to get you this far. There's only one mage I'd work harder to snare, and that's me. So: yes, dearie, listen to your better half and put me out of my misery."

Gold nods at his wife and she draws herself up straight to make the formal announcement. "Yes, Mr. Kamen, we accept the offer to work with the Society of Embedded Mages and Seers. Thank you for honoring us thus."

"Whoo-hoo!" Kamen tosses the bottle of wine into the air; when it comes back down, it's morphed into champagne. He pops the cork magically as Belle fetches three champagne glasses. "All those years of study paid off! Do you have any idea how boring tax law is? But never mind, I can now take down my shingle and do what I really want to do: host a TV game show!"

"Well, here's to the next MC for _Family_ _Feud_." Gold salutes him with the champagne. "And what, pray tell, is in our future?"

"And what did Chloe mean with that remark about me being a mother?"

"As usual, she was jumping the gun. First things first." He raises his glass. "To the first husband and wife team in SEMS." They drink, and he offers a second toast. "And in anticipation of the first in-laws and grandpa-grandson team."

Gold narrows his eyes. "Are you manipulating us again, Kamen?"

"You bet. Next order of business: bringing Emma into the fold, and when he graduates college, Henry."

"He's magical, then?" Belle wonders.

"Gonna give Grandpa a run for his money, but not for some time yet. Both his parents need a little work before they'll be on board with him studying magic. But that's just one of the projects we have in mind for you. The other one, should you decide to accept it, it's a lulu. It'll take some explaining, and we'll need Won-Que's talents to illustrate the concept, so if you can get away for a couple of hours Friday night. . . .The library closes at six on Fridays, doesn't it?"

"It does. Yes, we can make it," Belle answers.

"All in due time, then," Gold agrees. "Now it's time for my glazed salmon with broccoli rice, before it dries out." He withdraws Belle's chair.

"And do I spy some more of those rosemary rolls?" Kamen spreads his napkin across his lap. "I gotta learn how to cook."


	77. Chapter 77

Chapter 76

Khan: "_And in the end, the seeds of hatred destroyed themselves, as they always do, as they always will."_

* * *

><p>"Okay, what we have to tell you will be clearer if we show it to you," Chloe says as soon as they've settled onto her couch with glasses of iced tea.<p>

Kamen reddens. "Well, in the interest of full disclosure–considering you're one of us now, we need to be completely upfront with you—_showing_ is more effective a manipulation technique than telling."

"Show us, then," Belle grants her permission.

"One thing, though: it could be intense," Chloe informs her.

Kamen nods. Glancing at Gold, he elucidates: "It involves divination."

Belle's eyes widen and brighten, leaving Gold no other answer but "Proceed, Kevin."

Won-Que and an elderly woman whose name in this world, as Gold recalls, is Rosa approach Gold then, the woman holding out her hand. "Then it is time for us to go to work," she says. "We require both of you, too, for this effort."

"We'll retreat to the study; the work will be easier in a more private setting," Won-Que leads them into the spacious office, large enough to hold Gold's entire shop. The furniture has been shoved back against the walls and the only lighting is provided by the waning moon, peering in through the open floor-to-ceiling windows. Paintings on the wall depict planets, comets and stars. The thick carpet absorbs their footfalls as Won-Que and Rosa direct their guests to the center of the room.

"Rumplestiltskin." Rosa gives him a moment to adjust to the reduction of light before taking his hand. "We intend to look into the future, yours and Belle's. Moreso, we intend to project the images we find there into our circle so that we all can See."

"It will be unsettling for you. It always is, the first time, but for one who's lived a life of secrets, as you have, until recently, it will be a struggle," Won-Que adds. "You've just begun to trust, and we must ask you to take the biggest leap of trust a mage can take: we must ask you to allow us in. Into your mind, into your heart, into your magic."

Gold stiffens. Rosa's grip is warm but firm, lending him confidence. "Won-Que and I have done this many times, with many non-Seers," she assures him. "We will intrude only as much as necessary, and we will take from you only as much as you willingly release to us."

"You will be taking from us as well, drawing upon our power and connecting to our Sight. Between the three of us, we will examine pieces of your future," Won-Que says.

Gold purses his lips. "It's been many years since I've called upon my Sight. And never in this world. In my land, magic works differently. . . ."

"We'll guide you," Rosa volunteers. "And your wife will complete our circle. Her presence will anchor your magic to the Will Be, instead of the Could Be."

"Oh, but I'm not magical," Belle begins to protest.

"To him, you are," Won-Que grins. "That gives you as much power as any of us."

"Join hands," Rosa instructs, reaching out to Won-Que with her free hand; in turn, the monk takes Belle's hand. When Gold grasps Belle's free hand, he feels a small shock, as if he'd stuck his finger in a light socket: a circuit of magic has been completed and power is flowing from him and into him. The magic feeding into him from Rosa and Won-Que is distantly familiar; it's been so long since he tapped into this pool, he's almost forgotten how it feels, but he's comforted by the fact that it's all the same, his Sight and Rosa's and Won-Que's. For this moment, their magic, like the blood of siblings, makes them family.

The tension leaves his body and he concentrates, closing his eyes when Rosa instructs them to. The room is so silent and still he can hear Belle breathing, and that comforts him too, so familiar it is, Belle pressed against him, just breathing. In the long moments of stillness he can almost convince himself he's alone with her and at home.

He feels Rosa's and Won-Que's magic—he can't differentiate between them; their signatures are identical—touch his skin gently, then hesitantly, it asks to be allowed into his mind. He lowers his guard. It's the same, all the same, their magic and his; no stranger, no intruder, this magic, just more of the same magic all flowing together like tributaries flowing into a river. He imagines it so, as a single slow-moving river, a lazy summer breeze rifling the leaves of overhanging trees; and when he imagines the magic—theirs and his—in this way all resistance passes from him and he lets them in to his mind and his heart.

It's then that he Sees. A tremble in Belle's hand causes him to open his eyes even as the inner Sight overtakes his mind. Transfixed, Belle is staring into the center of their circle, where the same image that's filled Gold's mind has taken form. It floats there, shifting and turning, transparent and luminescent like a hologram: Blue, Bernie and Astrid, but in their fairy state, hover over a crib (carved by Marco; somehow Gold knows this). At the foot of the crib stand Belle, her waist still thick with post-pregnancy weight, and Gold, his arm draped over her shoulders. The vision doesn't show the occupant of the crib, but it doesn't have to.

"Adelena," Belle gasps.

It's the blessing of a royal newborn, traditional in the Enchanted Forest and many other lands, though not always delivered by fairies; in lands with longer histories than Misthaven's, it's the responsibility of a royal sorcerer. In this Land (Not) Without Magic, the scene being played out within the circle of Seers is a first; and in this democratic country, it has nothing to do with royalty.

It has everything to do with friendship.

Gold can't hear the blessings his friends the fairies are bestowing on his daughter. It doesn't matter: he knows their wishes all issue from the best of intentions—and now that he knows magic exists in this land, he knows the fairies' wishes will come true.

The vision shimmers and fades, then is replaced by another: a television newscaster reading the evening news, as an announcement scrolls across the bottom of the screen: "At age 30, Mills is the youngest governor in Maine's history."

Then another vision: a gray-haired woman in an evening gown approaches a podium and when she arrives at it, a stately gent in a tuxedo presents her with a velvet case lying open to reveal a gold medal. Somehow Gold knows the medal is the Nobel Prize for Physics, and the recipient's name is Professor Rachel Carson Gold-Carruthers. When the professor has made her acceptance speech and returned to her banquet table, the first of her family to congratulate her with a hug is her younger sister, who snaps a few quick pictures. Pulitzer Prize winning photojournalist Adelena Gold, the magic whispers. The Photog Who Taught the World to Care, she's called (her sister has been dubbed the Scientist Who Taught the World to Think).

Five others swarm around Professor Gold-Carson, offering kisses and hugs and proud smiles: her brothers, Jin Gold, an oceanographer, and Angelo Romano, an LEED-certified architect; her parents (Belle's hair is cut short now, and has turned white, and Gold is nearly bald); and Kevin Kamen, who, oddly, hasn't aged a day. He's cheating with magic, Gold suspects.

The four siblings put their heads together to plot across the banquet table. They've done this since they were old enough to talk–shutting their parents out, usually, but Belle and Gold are too proud of them to feel hurt. After all, the siblings have had a tremendous responsibility, of which they've been aware since childhood, and that knowledge has forged of them a tight and effective team.

Then a succession of quick visions:

Jin taking a group of well-dressed (Browning-Gold suits? Gold wonders) execs out on a boat; he's at the prow, shouting over the ocean waves, and these hardened businessfolk are listening intently. Gold recognizes the gleam in Jin's eyes: he's got them sold; checkbooks will be whipped out as soon as the boat returns to shore. Gold has no idea what they're buying, but he's sure it's something philanthropic. Jin hasn't an ounce of selfishness in his entire body. What he does have are his mom's do-gooder passion and his dad's dealmaking prowess.

Angelo, hunched over the floor plans for a new, water-conscious home for the Vice President of Zimbabwe. An older Angelo, speaking in Zulu to South African school kids, teaching them about xeriscaping. Of the four, he's the one who's taken up Gold's interest in plants.

"Where are his parents?" Gold calls out. "Show me Angelo's parents!"

The magic obeys: they are shown a car overturned in a snow-filled ditch, then the magic brings them the Sight of Angelo in a hospital bed again, held tightly in the arms of his old magician friend. "Can I go home with you? Please, Mr. G.?" And that image dissolves into Gold, bent over a sorry-looking lump of clay that's supposed to be a science fair volcano, while a tweenage Angelo struggles to coax lava from it. When Angelo sighs, "We better ask Rach to help" and scampers off, Gold blasts just a little magic into the volcano and suddenly the lava bubbles up. A whiny "Da-a-a-ad!" makes Gold reverse the magic with a hasty "Sorry, son."

Then another quick vision: a graying Angelo, blowing raspberries on a giggling infant's belly button. Gold wonder if the baby is Angelo's grandchild or belongs to one of Rachel's or Jin's kids. Not that it matters: they're all Golds.

Belle's sobbing breaks his concentration. He releases Rosa's hand to take Belle into his arms, and the circle is broken. The magic drains from his body and from the room. "I don't know why I'm crying." Belle snatches the handkerchief from his pocket and blows her nose. "I'm happy. I really am."

Won-Que pats her shoulder. "It can be overwhelming."

Rosa turns the lights on and fetches a glass of water for Belle. "From the original ten–your four, Emma and Bae's three, the two Nolan children, and a Hopper child–and the people these ten will influence, will spring solutions to problems of water conservation, overfishing, red tide and energy production; from the next generation–for from the original ten, ten more will rise who will devote themselves to this work–will come solutions for overpopulation and wise land use; and in the third generation, solutions for waste disposal and pollution abatement."

"There will also be wonderful stories written, breakthrough art created, beautiful music composed, to inspire the public and government leaders to take action," Won-Que adds.

"And now you see why we've been waiting and hoping for you," Rosa says. "In all of magic, you are uniquely qualified for this work. You, with your kindness and perceptiveness, Belle, will raise children whose values and compassion drive them toward service. And you, Rumplestiltskin, already unique as both a Seer and a sorcerer, your devotion to Baelfire leaves no doubt you would give these children all they need."

"You don't understand. I'm not the father you think I am. I failed Bae."

"And he forgave you. If you were the father you think you are, he wouldn't have."

Won-Que looks out at the moon. "The first child will be born in thirty-two hours. He will be left at the Bailin Zen Monastery. My brother monks will take him to an orphanage."

"Jin," Gold guesses, his heart swelling with pride for a child that isn't his. To hold a swaddled wee one in his arms again and promise him that his papa will never leave him–it's a grand blessing.

"Rumple," Belle speaks urgently, "it takes a month to get a visa for China. Our passports are still valid."

Won-Que informs them, "The typical waiting period to adopt a Chinese child is three years, but I can reduce that by half with a little magic and a few phone calls, if you decide to accept–"

"Yes!" Belle exclaims, and at the same time Gold blurts, "Of course!"

The doors to the study fly open and Kamen sweeps in, arms open wide. "Belle! Rumple! I'm so happy!" He lifts Belle in his arms and swings her about, then sets her down and bear-hugs Gold. "You see how special you are? You see how much we need you, and how much you need us? Aren't we damn lucky we found each other? Now, let's go eat!"

Before they can catch their breath, the Golds are swept into a Maserati with Chloe at the wheel and Kamen riding shotgun, and the rest of SEMS bidding them goodnight and farewell until next month's meeting.

* * *

><p>As she undresses for bed that night, Belle keeps glancing at her phone. Gold catches her at it. "What is it, sweetheart?"<p>

"Just thinking. If I called the Romanos. . . ."

"if you convinced them to quit driving, now and forever more, do you think that would save Angelo from being orphaned?"

Her jaw tightens. "From what I've learned from you about Destiny, probably not."

He squeezes her shoulder. "There would be something else. I wish we could save Angelo the suffering, but Destiny has plans we can't alter. His suffering, like yours when your mother died, like mine when my father abandoned me, will make him the person he's meant to become. To change that–if we could–would be to take away the future he's meant to have, the lives he's meant to touch."

"I think I'd do it anyway, if I could spare him that pain. I understand that pain."

"You'll help him through it."

She falls silent, brushing her hair slowly, and he goes off to shower. She'll do the right thing, however hard it is. When he returns to the bedroom, she's in bed, staring at the ceiling. He encircles her with his arms.

* * *

><p>"Rumple," Belle says as they dress the next morning, "I'm going to be a mother." She stares at him, stunned.<p>

"Of _four_," Gold answers. "I'd better call Josiah. I have a lot of bedrooms to paint." He combs his hair. "Belle, did you know the name 'Jin' means 'gold'? Gold Gold. That must be lucky."

* * *

><p>The next meeting of SEMS is held at Kamen's new home in Los Angeles, where he's enrolled in the Wink Martindale School of Game Show Hosting and trying to hire an agent. With time on his hands, he's also reading a lot of cookbooks, he reports, though he hasn't gotten around to cooking anything yet. He has Wolfgang Puck Catering provide hors d'oeuvres and drinks for the meeting. "How are you adjusting to the idea that you're about to become a mom?" he asks Belle as he offers her wine.<p>

"A dangerous question to ask," Gold warns. "Unless you've got an hour with nothing to do."

"Fantastic!" And she's off, rambling on about the books and clothes and toys she's bought already. When she pauses to catch her breath, Kamen asks the same question of Gold–and he's off, rambling on about paint and light fixtures and window treatments and shelves and the Mandarin characters he's been cutting out with Marco's jigsaw.

Rosa sits down beside Belle. "I understand this may be a bit too much at once, but sometimes Destiny can't afford to wait for us to catch up. Belle, another of the children is on her way."

"What do you mean, 'on her way'?"

"We found her in a foster home in Augusta."

"Rachel," Gold guesses.

"That's her first name, but Belle will give her a middle name."

Belle grins. "I've been reading _Silent Spring_."

"It will be overwhelming sometimes, having two small ones at the same time," Rosa warns. "Rachel is two and just recently stopped wearing diapers."

"We'll have help. There are plenty of babysitters in Bell's Corners. And Jo and Rumple will have the bedrooms ready by the end of next month. We can handle it," Belle says confidently. "These children are _meant _for us."

Satisfied, Rosa then turns her attention to Gold. "Rumplestiltskin, this situation may prove a particular challenge for you, but you can rise above it. Just focus on the child and not her genetics."

"What is it, Rosa?" Gold frowns, wondering if he's being manipulated again.

"Her birth parents are from the Enchanted Forest, by way of Storybrooke. Her mother has since left town and you'll likely not ever hear from her. She was, and is, what was called in the Enchanted Forest a 'public girl.'"

Belle is perplexed, so Gold explains in a clipped tone, "Prostitute." Leaving that subject hurriedly, he asks, "The father?"

"Rumplestiltskin, just as you would not blame the child for her mother's occupation–"

He interrupts more forcefully, "The father?"

"You will not hear from him again either. He will not return to Storybrooke."

Gold glares now at the Seer. "And her father?"

"Albert Spencer."

Silence drops like a heavy curtain. The knuckles of Gold's right hand whiten as he grips his cane tighter, and a muscle in his cheek twitches. But Belle shakes her head slowly. "Poor baby. Poor baby, to not even have been conceived in love. When she comes to us, Rachel will never know a day without love."

Gold remains silent.

"Will she, Rumple?" Belle presses. When he says nothing, she pushes, "You saw her. You saw what she will become with us: the Scientist Who Taught the World to Think. You saw what she will become for us: our eldest child. A role model for her sister and brothers. Our beloved daughter." Still he says nothing, and she raises her voice, "Rumple. When I thought I'd miscarried Jo's baby, what did you say to me?" He doesn't answer. "What did you say to me?"

"It's not the same, Belle."

"Yes it is. Forget about Jo being your friend. What did you say about the baby?"

"I said I would have loved her." He grits his teeth. "I said we would have made it work so that we could be together."

"This is Rachel. Not your enemy's daughter. Our Rachel. Jin and Adelena and Angelo need her. We need her, you and me, to make our family complete. Paint her room, Rumple. Paint it green so she'll grow up in green, a child of this Earth. And say it now, just like you would have to Jo's baby."

He lowers his face, ashamed of his petulance. "I'll love her. She's ours and we'll be together. I do love her."

* * *

><p>It's Gold this time who makes some phone calls to speed the adoption process. Judge Fairfax oversees the case and when she learns who the birth parents were, she pulls mightily on her many strings and in five months, instead of the typical fifteen for an in-country adoption, Fairfax is hosting an "adoption papers signing party" at Fran's bistro. Across the table sit the beaming new parents, Belle in a new Stella McCartney, Gold in a new Browning-Gold three-piece suit. Most of Bell's Corners have come, bearing gifts for the toddler; a pregnant Snow and her husband attend too. Gold has been making an extra effort with them these days, now that he knows their children will be part of the Ten.<p>

As for the star of the program, she's been sitting relatively quietly in her new dad's lap, rolling his tie up and down, up and down. He doesn't slap her hand away; he just pats her back and gives her sips of his iced tea. Mom's tried to take her a few times, but she shakes her stubborn little head and grabs Dad with an iron grip. No one can figure out why; Rachel's been like that from the day the Golds went to the foster home to claim her.

When they ask him about it, Archie just shrugs. "Some kids are daddy's kids, some are mommy's kids. Probably the next one will favor mommy." Belle brightens: "That'll be Jin, our oceanographer." The lad's adoption is still a year away.

But man plans and Destiny laughs: Belle is proven wrong.


	78. Chapter 78

Chapter 78

**A/N. We've reached the end of this story. Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks for the comments. It was a challenge trying to keep up with you guys! Your guesses were often right on the money. I hope that, if I didn't manage to surprise you, at least I managed to entertain you. . . and take our dear Rumple to a happiness he's earned.**

* * *

><p>Po: "<em>You will have found your strength and the source of your survival. You will be free."<em>_  
><em>

* * *

><p>Two weeks before Christmas, Belle and Gold are sorting through the kitchen cupboards and the refrigerator while Rachel watches from her high chair. They're planning a dinner party for New Year's Eve, which will follow their re-commitment ceremony at the convent. Just family and close friends are invited–which means about half of Bell's Corners, along with Kevin and his "plus one." The second wedding is Belle's idea: they're living dramatically different lives now than those they were living when they first married. But she also hopes any lingering insecurities he feels will be quelled when, before their friends and family, she repeats her pledge of forever.<p>

After, there will be a gourmet dinner, she's decided; she's been so busy lately she hasn't shown off her culinary skills in a while. They finish the shopping list, post it on the fridge and go on about their day.

In a locked closet upstairs are ten Christmas presents (with a two-year-old in the house, the presents can't be left unsecured). Two of the presents are wrapped in silver paper: they're tagged "Belle" and "Rumple." Six more are wrapped in gold and are designated for the Doves and the Swan-Golds. Two are wrapped in Sesame Street paper and are tagged "Rachel" and "Jin." According to their legal representative in China, Jin's adoption papers won't clear until July, but the Golds want to be prepared for the possibility of a Christmas miracle. They've seen plenty of miracles before.

* * *

><p>Three days after Christmas, Destiny laughs and grants them the miracle they were not yet expecting.<p>

Gold, still in slippers and a robe, is slicing an apple for Rachel's breakfast when Belle gallops down the stairs, thrashes around in the junk drawer, finds a pen, then scratches something off the shopping list. Tossing the pen in the air, she cheers.

Gold cocks his head.

She splays her fingers in the direction of the list. He takes the implied suggestion and squints at the list. Under her scratching he can barely make out a "t," an "a" and an "m."

He gapes and drops the list, just in time, because Belle is flying into his arms. After a long kiss, he releases her for a moment to retrieve the pen and write on the list, in all capital letters, "PAMPERS, SIZE: NEWBORNS."

* * *

><p>The day after New Year's, Gold sends a text to Won-Que: "My body and my mind are in harmony."<p>

The reply: "Congratulations! When is the baby due?"

* * *

><p>July 21, 2017<p>

Today's _Mirror_ reports that by the latest count, Storybrooke has 1,274 residents; its neighbor to the north, Bell's Corners, has 7,434. A small article on the Lifestyles page announces the newest arrival, eighteen-month-old Jin Gold, formerly of Shijiazhuang, China. "Three under the age of three, and one of them only ten days old," the article reports Jin's new mother as laughing. "Yes, we have our hands full, and we're loving every minute."

* * *

><p>December 21, 2017<p>

Today's _Mirror _includes an obituary for Angelo Romano Sr. and his wife Cindy.

Today marks the final edition of the _Mirror._

* * *

><p>July 1, 2031<p>

Gold leans in the doorway to Gold and Dove Antiques. He's been spending a lot more time here, as he's passed retirement age; he jokes that he belongs here with the other antiques, a remark that always earns a slug in the arm from Belle or an "Oh, Daddy!" from Rachel. Most of his work in the community, he's gradually passed on to his eldest son and grandson, except for his gardening. He and Blue will never relinquish that.

"How they bitin', Mr. G.?" Annie Hopper greets as she drives by on her bicycle. It's their equivalent of "good morning." Gold and Rachel taught Archie and Annie how to fish last summer.

"Slow this morning." Gold waves back. "See ya, Ann."

"See ya, Mr. G."

The shop's had no customers since he opened an hour ago, but that's the norm. Only the tourists can afford this stuff. Besides, his shops have always been more of a pastime than an income generator. His real estate investments and Belle's salary provide enough for them to live comfortably.

Belle's Honda turns onto Trout Drive and heads north. Gold straightens his tie; after all these years, he still likes to look presentable for his wife. Then he frowns, because she's got two passengers, people he's not keen on seeing. He ducks inside to plug in the coffee pot, then reemerges on the street. She parks at the curb and he opens her door to help her out, then assists her passengers out. "Your Majesty."

"Good morning, Mr. Gold." Snow looks as fresh and young as she did fifteen years ago, unless you look close. She's dressed in a yellow sundress and white sandals and Ray Bans. Her husband comes to her side; he's sunburnt. The prince nods a greeting. "Gold."

"Shopping for antiques, are we?" Gold holds the door open to allow them inside.

"Actually, they came by the house looking for you, so I drove them over," Belle explains. "They want to talk about something quite important."

"What could be more important than a sale?" He holds aside the curtain that separates the showroom from the workroom. "Come in and have a cup of coffee." Belle seats them as he fetches coffee cups and spoons.

"We haven't seen you in Storybrooke for a while," David begins.

"I don't get out as much any more." Gold brings out a little pot of fresh cream from the mini-fridge. "Most of my Storybrooke friends have left, or passed on, and as you know, having three teenagers keeps one busy."

"It does at that," David agrees. Both of his kids are on the track team.

"I'm sure you're aware, anyway, Storybrooke's never recovered from the economic slump of twenty years ago. We had some good years, but we never seemed to bounce back." Snow bows her head, and now Gold can see gray roots in her shiny black hair and lines creasing her forehead. "But Bell's Corners has prospered."

Gold nods. "We've done well. The mayor's brought in profitable businesses without losing the small-town flavor of the area or endangering natural resources. Wise decisions have been made."

"Decisions that led one of our own into the Governor's Mansion," David remarks, with just a hint of emphasis on _our_. "Youngest governor in Maine's history."

"We can thank Grace Hatter for that. She's a brilliant political strategist."

"Yes," Snow acknowledges. "Mr. Gold, the reason I'm here is, frankly, to ask your help. As you know, Storybrooke's lost half its population since 2014. Unemployment is nine percent. Poverty rate is thirty-nine percent. We haven't had a new business open since 2021. We filed for bankruptcy last year."

"How do you perceive me as being able to help?" The coffee pot is steaming now. Gold brings it over and fills four cups. Then he sets the pot down with a thump. "You're not thinking I'd conjure you a solution? Fill the dwarfs' mine with diamonds? Transport the U. S. Mint to Ms. Ginger's backyard? Or maybe something simpler: hypnotize Bill Gates into believing that he's King Midas and transport him to Storybrooke?"

"Rumple," Belle cautions.

"I apologize for the sarcasm." Gold sits down. "Part of my nature. All right. What would you have me do for Storybrooke?"

"Speak to your oldest son on our behalf," Snow answers, raising her chin.

"My son is married to your daughter," Gold points out. "You've got a direct line to him. Why bother with a middle man?"

"When it comes to city development, he listens to you. That was proven last year when Lotsa Lumber wanted to buy Plockton Woods and you put your foot down."

"Those trees are worth far more alive than cut down," Gold mutters.

"I agree. You've got a keen mind for how and when to accept a deal. Baelfire listens to you, and he's right to do so. We'd like you to clear a path for us, and then we'll approach him with an offer."

"And that offer is?"

"A merger. Storybrooke and Bell's Corners. Each town would retain its unique flavor, but they'd operate under one government. Yours."

Gold's cup clatters as he nearly drops it. "You'd. . . abdicate?" He's not sure that's the right term for the relinquishing of a mayoral seat held by a queen.

"I need to save Storybrooke. I think this merger will do it."

He feels sorry for her. In the Enchanted Forest, no monarch ever abdicated. They died—by natural or unnatural causes—on the throne. But at the same time, he's pissed that the Charmings have once again come to Rumplestiltskin for aid. If he assists, they will thank him, of course; they're well-manned people. They will accept Bae's leadership, which is a sort of ironic revenge, Gold supposes. But he's pissed nevertheless. Without a word, he walks out the back door, grabbing his fishing jacket. He passes Adelena, who's earning her allowance by sweeping up. "Going fishing," he whispers to her, and she giggles. "You're in the dog house again, aren't you, Daddy?"

In the parking lot now, he hears Belle through the shop's open windows: "Seriously? You're asking me to talk to him? Convince him to accept your deal? Snow, he's a good man, and I trust him to make a decision that considers the best interests of Bell's Corners, as well as our family. Even if he weren't my husband, I'd support his decision. So no, I won't talk to him for you."

"Where did he go?" Charming is demanding. "We need him to broker this deal for us."

As the shop door opens, Gold scrambles to get into his Tesla before he can be caught. He's already made up his mind about the deal: Belle's confidence in him reminds him who he's become. Besides, he's got ten kids to set an example for. So he will go back later today, but first he needs to chill. Angelo's home from Zimbabwe; Gold will pick him up and they'll head out to the river. It'll be more productive, Gold thinks, than listening to Charming yak.

* * *

><p>From WMTW dot com, January 21, 2032<p>

Last night in a two-thirds vote, the state legislature passed a bill authorizing the merger of the towns of Storybrooke (pop. 1,255) and Bell's Corners (pop. 7,611), separated from one another by a twelve-mile expanse of Scotsman's Bay in southeastern Maine. The merger is subject to a referendum election, to be held in May.

According to Mayor Baelfire Gold, Governor Henry Mills, a former resident of both towns, will return to Bell's Corners on June 1 to sign the bill into law. Grace Hatter, press secretary for the governor, stated that the signing will take place in Cindy's Rose Garden, the designated quiet zone area of Romano Park. A town picnic will follow the signing. "The governor is very proud to be a part of this historic event," said Ms. Hatter.

The new town is expected to adopt the name of Hope, a suggestion made by Rumple Gold, the leading advocate for the merger. Rumple Gold is both Mayor Gold's father and Governor Mills' grandfather.

Attempts to reach Rumple Gold for comment were unsuccessful. A sign on his antiques shop indicated that he and his business partner Josiah Dove had "gone fishing with the kids."


End file.
